


Pacify Part 6: Still

by Chickenpets



Series: Pacify [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, And all kinds of other stuff, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Bottom Harry Potter, Canonical Child Abuse, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pacifyverse, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Press and Tabloids, Redemption, Safewords, Sex Magic, Top Charlie Weasley, Top Severus Snape, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 128,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26382937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chickenpets/pseuds/Chickenpets
Summary: Still:1. Free from noise or turbulence: Calm, tranquil2. To put an end to: Settle3. Always, continually4. In spite of: Nevertheless“How are you feeling?” Harry asked, and hesitantly raised his hand to stroke over Severus’ back, over the ridges of old wounds, and the sinewy muscle wrapped around bone. His soldier, cast in iron and covered with a patina of scars. Merlin, he was so in love. “Did you sleep alright?”
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Charlie Weasley, Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Series: Pacify [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595650
Comments: 2293
Kudos: 1759





	1. Grimmauld Place

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back, everyone.

If, two years ago, a seer had told Draco Malfoy that he’d end up living in a house with his mother, Severus Snape, and Harry Potter, he would have laughed in their face. Maybe even spat in it, too, depending on the tone in which the news had been delivered. If he’d been told such a thing a year ago - on his seventeenth birthday, perhaps, which had passed unnoticed in the final rush to repair the vanishing cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things - he definitely would have spat on them, and probably sneered something about Snape ending up in Azkaban for what he’d done to Potter. Called Snape a pedophile rapist, and Harry a pathetic whore, or something like that. But that had been before. Before Draco met a real rapist, and discovered who, exactly, was the pathetic one with nothing but his body to bargain with. 

A summer spent in a house with the Dark Lord could really change your perspective on things, as it turned out, and by Christmas, he would have fallen on his knees before anyone that could tell him he’d end up alright. That Snape was going to protect him, and that his mother would survive. By Easter he would have begged - would have given anything - would have, and did, risk his own life in the hopes that Harry would make it to the end, and Snape would forgive Draco for all he’d done, and take him somewhere safe. And after all that, he’d made it. He was in Harry’s house, and there was Harry himself, alive and well with a scroll from the Ministry and Draco’s school trunk shrunken down to the size of a stick of butter. And there was Severus Snape beside him. Holding his _hand_ , no less, which Draco supposed was how things were going to be now. 

Harry Potter and his lover - his soulmate, apparently, if those were even real - and Draco and his mother, living together in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. 

Well, he could get used to that.

Probably. 

“This is incredible,” Narcissa said, scanning the finalized plea deal with an air of having read many such documents in her life. Which she probably had, now that Draco thought about it. How many times had his father been arrested? Three? He’d only been sentenced once, but still. “We won’t be subjected to _legilimency_ by the DMLE?”

“No,” Severus answered, handing their things over to a truly elated Kreacher, who seemed to have combed his ear-hair in preparation for their arrival. “I will have that honor. We’ve a week to get them together, though I thought we might begin sooner rather than later, as I anticipate some skepticism. I’m not considered terribly trustworthy, you know.”

Narcissa laughed.

“How do you prove you didn’t mess with the memories?” Draco asked. “Veritaserum?”

“Multiple perspectives, that’s all,” Severus answered. “As many as I can collect. And speaking of collection, are your barriers still intact? If they are, you’ll want to dissolve them before I extract from you.”

Draco’s barriers were intact, though he’d had neither the time nor the will to maintain them the way he used to. “Are _your_ barriers intact?” 

“Mine?” Severus asked. “No. I released them all the night of the battle. My brain is free of any and all falsehood, now.” 

“Wow, really?” Harry broke in, and reached up to knock on the side of Severus’ head like it was a door. “Must be way less crowded in there.” He stood on tiptoe to peer into his ear. “No lies? No _fakery?_ No _bullshit?”_

“Nothing but you, my beloved,” Severus answered, catching Harry’s wrist and kissing the tip of his middle finger. “My thoughts echo around in the great cavernous emptiness.”

“You two are _revolting,”_ Narcissa said fondly. “What an absolute nightmare this is going to be.”

“A _nightmare,”_ Severus agreed, and without warning, scooped Harry up into his arms. Harry squawked, but Severus did not put him down, ignoring his indignation so completely that it made Draco think he probably knew it was fake. And it did seem fake, too. Mostly because of the way Harry was blushing.

Draco fixed his eyes on the floor. 

“Revolting. Offensive!” Severus continued, sweeping away towards the stairs with his burden. “Obnoxious! _Scandalous! The worst kind of horrific, immoral, profligate nonsense-”_

 _“Severus!”_ Harry yelped, kicking his legs. _“Not in front of-”_

_“He’s a libertine and must be stopped! A FIEND! Call the Aurors. Call GREGORY!”_

_“SEVERUS-”_

Draco didn’t look up until their voices faded up the stairs. 

That couldn’t possibly be how they were all the time. No _way._ No one was that affectionate, and certainly not Severus Snape. Severus Snape, who had slit the Dark Lord’s throat and then _stepped on it_ so he wouldn’t die before he could be taunted? Severus Snape who’d killed someone with a _knife_ because he didn’t want to _‘waste too much magic on a pig?’_ It just wasn’t possible. He must be excited to be free of Hogwarts… or… he was drunk. Or he’d taken a _euphoric,_ or something. But he couldn’t maintain it. He just… couldn’t. 

But then he said that to his mother, and she stopped laughing and gave him a pitying look.

“Didn’t I tell you he was a romantic?” she said. “You’d better gird your loins for an ungodly flood of public affection, darling. Mark my words. That man is _obscene._ He’s just been holding it in.” She tossed her hair back over her shoulder and excused herself to her room, ostensibly to dissolve her own Occlumency in preparation for whatever Snape was going to take from her. And that, Draco thought, was probably a good idea. He remembered very vividly how it felt to have Snape dig something out from underneath his mental wards, and had no desire to experience it ever again. So he retired to his own room to do the same, which he realized rather quickly was a mistake. 

Because Kreacher had put Harry and Snape up in the Master Suite. And the Master Suite was, apparently, directly over Regulus’ old room, where Draco was staying. And Grimmauld Place was old. And he heard… some things.

***

Severus tossed Harry unceremoniously onto the gigantic, over-pillowed bed, and crawled over him. 

“Welcome back to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place,” he said, took hold of Harry’s wrists, and pinned them over his head. “And I finally get to fuck you here. What a blessing.”

“Severus, jeez-” Harry gasped as Severus settled between his legs. “It’s the middle of the day!” 

“Yes, it is the middle of the day,” Severus answered, transferring both of his wrists into one hand. “Is that something we don’t do?”

Harry glowered at him and flexed his arms. It wasn’t quite resisting. More a gesture of annoyance. “Draco saw you _carry me,”_ he said, like _that_ was what they didn’t do.

“Yes he did,” Severus answered. “And he’ll see it again. This is our home for the time being, and I’ll hardly change my behavior for _him._ Draco Malfoy can mind his manners and ignore it. Now.” He gave Harry’s wrists a squeeze, pressing them deep into the pillows before releasing them. “Be a good boy for me and stay still.” 

“Oh,” Harry said, suddenly sounding much less annoyed. “No hands?” 

“Not for you,” Severus answered, and dipped his head to kiss Harry’s throat, and then his chest, and then still lower, nudging the hem of his shirt up with his nose to get at his skin. “Color?”

“Green.” Harry spread his legs and licked his lips. “Are we christening our new bedroom?”

“Yes,” Severus answered. “It’s never heard you scream. In fact… this _house_ has never heard you scream. Tragic.”

“Who’s f-” Harry sucked in a breath as Severus palmed him once through his jeans before undoing them. “Who’s fault is that?”

“Yours,” Severus answered, tugging Harry’s shoes off along with his trousers and underwear and dumping the lot off the edge of the bed. “For being born so incredibly _recently._ Hands on the pillows, now.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered, and then gasped in alarm as Severus seized his legs, dragging him into the middle of the bed so he had to reach to keep his arms in place. “Hey - wait - aren’t you gonna-”

“Restrain you?” Severus interrupted. “No.” He took hold of Harry’s cock, which was already very hard, and laved his tongue up the underside and over the tip. “Behave yourself, Potter, or suffer the consequences.” 

“Ooh, _consequences,”_ Harry said, and though it seemed he was trying to sound flirtatious, it came out a bit strangled.

“Mm,” Severus agreed, and spread his hands across Harry’s hip bones. “I always knew you were getting detention on purpose.” He traced his tongue lightly around the head of his cock and over the tip, moving slowly, and Harry cursed and dropped his head back.

“At the end I sure was.” He curled his fingers into the pillowcases. “You’re not gonna make this easy on me, are you?”

“Do I ever?” Severus murmured back, and licked him again, a long, slow, thorough drag of the tongue, taking his time getting him nice and slick before finally closing his lips. He sucked gently, feeling Harry’s hips resist up against his hands and then relax back twice in quick, abbreviated thrusts, like he was trying very hard to stay still. And that was sweet, wasn’t it? So sweet, and so polite. 

Pity Severus wasn’t in the mood for polite sweetness. He felt rather good, and was in the mood for failure. Failure, and begging. Yes, that sounded just right. 

He slowed still further, easing Harry into his mouth a millimeter at a time before backing off again, bobbing his head at an absolutely glacial pace.

 _Fail,_ he thought, tightening his lips but moving no faster as Harry’s legs twitched restlessly against the bedclothes and a droplet of bitter precome hit the flat of his tongue. He hummed low in his throat at the taste. _Fail. Fail._

“Severus - _don’t -_ don’t _tease-”_ Harry choked out, his words squeezing themselves into an incoherent whimper and his hands fisting tight into the pillows like it was taking every ounce of his self-control to keep from grabbing Severus by the hair and forcing him down. 

As if he even could. 

Severus withdrew just enough to speak.

“Don’t?” he asked, his voice pitched low. “I could stop. Shall I?” He looked up and met Harry’s eyes, and Harry’s cock jumped against his lips.

“Oh, _God,”_ he gasped, his toes flexing against Severus’ sides. “That’s _so_ \- you’re - so - can you _please -_ I just _\- can’t -_ fuck. _More. Please._ Can you - _please?”_

“You’re such a poet,” Severus murmured, and opened his mouth, sinking down onto him all at once. Immediately, Harry’s shoulders curled up off of the bed, leaving his hands barely in place, and he strangled on his moan and flattened himself back to the sheets in fear. 

“Sorry,” he breathed.

He was so precious, and he was trying so hard, and he was holding onto his obedience by a thread.

Severus slid his hands underneath Harry’s hips and swallowed, giving him permission to thrust up, and Harry did, pressing his heels into the bed with a hiss of grateful pleasure. But then his cock hit the back of Severus’ throat, and that was all it took - just that sensation - and Harry’s hands left their position, clamped down on Severus’ skull, and then let go immediately like he was burning hot. 

“Oh, _shit -_ Sorry-” Harry yelped, seizing the pillows with both hands like he was hoping that if he did it fast enough, Severus might turn a blind eye. Which he certainly would not. “Sorry - sorry - _Jesus.”_

“My my,” Severus growled, pulling off to bite at the point of his hip. “What a greedy little monster you are.” He gave him a sharp smack on the leg. “Get on your knees and hold the headboard. Shirt off.” Harry scrambled to obey, tearing his t-shirt over his head and turning himself around, but Severus seized the back of his neck at the last moment and pinned his face into the cushions. “Is that how you take an order?” he demanded. “In _silence?”_

“No-” Harry gasped. “No, _sir.”_

“Color?”

 _“Green._ God. That’s green.”

“Up on your knees, then.”

“Yes, sir. Yes.” Harry stayed perfectly still with his face in the pillows until Severus released him, and then took just the position Severus had indicated, curling both hands over the headboard with his knees braced apart. “Consequences?” he asked, and as Severus stroked his hands over the dip and curve of his backside, he spread his legs a little wider, effectively translating his question into a statement: _hit me._

Severus did not answer him. Instead, he brushed his knuckles down the backs of his thighs, watching goosebumps follow his touch like ripples in a pond. 

_I love you,_ he thought, though what he said was, “a dozen.” And Harry didn’t ask _‘a dozen, what?’_ or anything else. He just nodded, and hung his head between his shoulders, and then went rigid.

“Oh, fuck. I meant - yes, sir.”

“Better,” Severus said, and delivered a stinging, open-handed slap to Harry’s smooth, lovely skin. Harry gasped and jerked, bracing one hand flat against the wall. “Number, please.”

_“One.”_

***

Draco had not moved a single muscle for what felt like aeons. He was frozen. Paralyzed to his bed by the sounds coming through the ceiling. Whatever he’d imagined in the fear-soaked fever dreams of his most desperate moments, this was worse. Or, if not worse, then just… more. Just _way more._

 _“Seven - Eight - Nine,”_ came through very clearly, and then a low, masculine rumble, too deep or too quiet to be understood. But Harry, he could understand. Each number, and cry, and each _‘harder,’_ which seemed like something he would not be saying based on everything else. Draco had been on the receiving end of Severus Snape’s hand enough times to know that it _hurt,_ and he could no more imagine asking for it harder than he could imagine sticking himself with a knife for fun _._ But Harry had said ‘harder.’ He’d said it three times. 

_“Ten!”_

Draco’s cheek and scalp were tingling with sense memory, his mouth filling with the phantom taste of blood. The ghost of a black eye, a hank of torn out hair. A single slap more than enough to make a mark that lasted _days._ Snape was strong. He was ruthless. But God, Harry did not sound like he needed help. He sounded like he liked it. Like he _really_ liked it. And no matter what Draco thought he’d _known…_ he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known _anything._

 _“Eleven! Fuck -”_ Harry cried, and then there was Severus’ voice again, his words indistinct but his tone clear. He sounded amused, almost teasing, and Draco went hot all the way to his toes. What the fuck was happening.

_Crack!_

_“TWELVE! Twelve. Jesus. Twelve.”_

And then silence.

“Holy Merlin,” Draco whispered.

***

“Mm,” Severus said, smoothing his palms over the raised, red imprints his hands had left on Harry’s flesh. “Beautiful.” He pressed his lips to one of the marks before sitting back on his haunches to unbuckle his belt and fly, and when he looked back up, he found Harry watching him over his shoulder with his hands still very obediently holding the headboard. He was glowing with sweat - his pupils wide and dark behind his crooked spectacles - and when he saw Severus’ eyes on him, his color deepened almost painfully and he looked back at the wall. “Suddenly shy, are we?” Severus asked. “There’s no need for that, Potter. You have the next eighty years to watch me take my cock out, so you may as well look now, if you can stand it. Go on.” Harry worried his bottom lip between his teeth and looked back, his mouth falling open at the sight of Severus’ prick in his hand. Hard, and heavy, and glistening at the tip.

“Can I suck you?” he asked breathlessly. “I - _really want to suck you.”_

“No,” Severus answered. 

“Please? Please. I - want it. I’ll swallow everything. Please.”

“You always do.” Severus withdrew his wand and touched it to Harry’s hip, speaking the incantation before setting it aside. “But no, I want you just like this.” He slid his thumb over Harry’s hole, smearing the lubrication in a smooth, gentle circle. “I must confess I do so love watching my cock disappear into you.” He gave a little pressure, barely breaching him. “And my fingers, of course.”

“Cock, please,” Harry whispered. 

“What was that?” Severus asked, sinking his thumb inside to the first knuckle. Harry turned his face into his arm and exhaled a huff of breath. 

“Your _cock_ I want your _cock,”_ he repeated. _“Please.”_

“As you wish, my beloved,” Severus answered, withdrawing his hand. “You know I live only to please you.” He took hold of Harry’s hips, reveling in the heat radiating off of his reddened skin. “Please you, and embarrass you, and make you scream.”

“You’re one for - _mh-”_ Harry broke off as Severus began to push inside. 

“One for three?” Severus supplied. “So far.” He braced one hand beside Harry’s on the headboard, leaning over to kiss the back of his neck. “I’ll complete that list before letting you leave this room again, Potter, never fear.” 

“God, You’re such a-” 

Severus cut the rest of that sentence off with a single, sharp thrust, and then slowed again, tilting his hips very deliberately to overtake the last critical millimeters between them until he was sheathed absolutely to the root. He curled one arm around Harry’s waist to hold him steady, fancying that if he squeezed, he might be able to feel how deep he was buried. Harry was so slight, it always amazed him how much he could take. 

_“Severus…”_ Harry whimpered. “For the love of God, _why_ are you _torturing me?”_

“Because I like to hear how much you want it,” Severus answered, shifting just enough to pull a little gasp out of him. “How much you _need it,_ hm? Tell me how it feels, and maybe I’ll give you what you want sooner rather than later.” 

“You know it feels good,” Harry answered weakly. “Like - a fucking _dream_ every time - every - _oh-”_

“Mm.” Severus withdrew part way and then slid home, listening to Harry’s breath leave him in an immoderate rush before taking up a steady, controlled pace. “Even the first time?” he continued. “Didn’t I hurt you?”

“Of - course - you _hurt me-”_ Harry managed, spreading his knees a little wider in the plush comforter, his feet flexing and curling. “And it was - fucking - _perfect,_ and I want that _now.”_

“It was perfect, wasn’t it?” Severus asked, rolling his hips in that same slow, sensual rhythm. The kind of patient tenderness that drove Harry absolutely insane with frustration if he hadn’t already been forcefully reduced. “I was afraid you might not be able to handle all of me back then, you know. A delicate, petite little thing like you? I was sure it would be too much - that you’d tell me to stop. I tried so hard to be gentle with you, too. But I failed, right at the end. Do you remember?” Harry nodded hard, pressing back against him as much as he could manage without moving his hands, which wasn’t very much at all. “I couldn’t stand hearing your pleasure. The way you said my name… I quite lost control of myself. But you took that, too, didn’t you? And so _deep.”_ He splayed his palm flat across Harry’s belly, flexing his fingers. “A lesser soul would have begged for mercy. But not you. You’d rather die than disappoint your master, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, God,” Harry groaned, dropping his head, his knuckles going white. “Severus, _please-”_

“And look at you now,” Severus purred, covering Harry’s hand with his own and punctuating his next words with a series of smooth, liquid thrusts. “Coming on my cock… Choking on it… _Begging_ for it. Bending over for it in Minerva McGonagall’s _office.”_ Harry moaned piteously, and then stiffened in indignation.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did _I_ initiate that?” he demanded, squeezing his body tight. “Hurry up and _fuck me_ before I _explode.”_

Severus tsked, not varying his pace one bit. “My, you’ve certainly recovered your attitude. I am fucking you.” Harry made a frustrated noise and flexed his body again, and when Severus remained unmoved, tried something else. 

Whining.

_“C’mon - Severus - please - you know what I mean - C’monnnn.”_

Severus did know what he meant, of course, though he wasn’t particularly swayed by that wheedling tone. 

“Very persuasive,” he said coolly, and Harry tensed and slapped his palm against the wall in annoyance. Severus just chuckled, and was considering giving in and indulging him, when he looked down at the join of their bodies and was struck with sudden inspiration. 

Harry was just so demanding. He always wanted more, didn’t he?

Always.

“A _greedy little monster,”_ Severus repeated softly, trailing his fingertips down Harry’s spine with the tiniest suggestion of nails. “You’re just a bottomless pit of desire, aren’t you? Tell me you want more.”

“Yes I want _more,”_ Harry snarled. “More. Harder. _C’mon._ You’re fucking _killing me_ today you bloody _tease. You fucking-_ oh.” His entitled tone abruptly shattered and he lifted his head as Severus traced one finger across the rim of his stretched hole, gathering some of the lubrication that had leaked out of him. “What are you-?”

“I’m giving you what you want,” Severus answered, pressing the very tip of his finger alongside his own cock, right up against his entrance. “More, if you think you can take it. Can you take it, love?” Harry’s muscles tensed and fluttered around him, and he made a noise somewhere between a desperate _yes_ and a terrified _no_. “Oh, now he’s speechless. What an improvement.” Severus stroked him gently, his fingers slipping against the sensitive skin, but did not move to penetrate him. Yet. “Color, my brave Gryffindor? Be honest.” 

“I - um… p-purple?” Harry whispered. 

“And if it’s too much?” 

“Red.”

“Very good. Deep breath, now.”

***

As he saw it, Draco had three choices. One: Pathetically wank off to Harry’s voice through the ceiling and try to withhold his shame for the rest of his life. Two: Flee, and pretend this had never happened. Three: Jump off the roof.

He fled. Straight down the stairs and back into the thankfully empty parlor, but he wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid hearing a brand new _Snape_ noise. And whether that was worse or better, he had no idea. But it was in his brain now, which meant he needed one of Kreacher’s cocktails _immediately._ Or possibly a very strong memory charm. Or to just die.

Yes, maybe he should just die. That would be good.

“Kreacher?” he called, wringing his hands, but just as the House-elf appeared before him with his usual bizarrely low bow, there was a knock at the door, and they both looked up. “Oh, fuck,” Draco moaned. “Come _on.”_

***

“I don’t see why you need _me,”_ Charlie said, shifting on his feet on the stoop of Number Twelve. “So the Goblins folded immediately. Send an owl!”

“Stop _bitching,”_ Bill hissed back. “I’m trying to help you get _laid,_ you bloody coward. And try not to look so _scared.”_

“I don’t fucking _need your help!_ And I’m _not-”_

The door opened a tiny crack and a single ice-blue eye peeked out.

“Hullo,” Bill said genially, giving a small wave. “Can we come in? We’ve got something for Harry, if he’s here.” The door closed, and there was a small jingling, and it opened again to reveal a Draco Malfoy dressed in black and bearing a blush so radiant that Charlie felt like he’d been hit over the head with a bat. “Is he here?” Bill repeated, pressing down on Charlie’s toe with the heel of his boot. “He had an urgent inquiry about his vault.”

“Oh,” Draco said, and glanced at Kreacher standing a little ways behind him. “Harry’s a - a bit busy just now. It’s urgent, you said?” 

“Urgent,” Bill repeated, looking past him into the hall. “Severus is busy too, I take it?”

“Yes… very busy.”

Bill laughed. “Well, we’re happy to wait. If you don’t mind, of course.” He gave Draco a winning smile that was only slightly undercut by his scars, and Charlie watched him do it, annoyed and jealous. Bill was always so good at that sort of thing. _Charming_ people. Not Charlie, though. He worked with animals, didn’t he? Show your teeth to a dragon and get bloody barbequed.

“No, not at all,” Draco said, cleared his throat, and held the door open. “I was just about to have a drink. Please.”

“A drink would be _lovely,”_ Bill said heartily. “We’ve been fighting with Goblins all day. Thank you. Any scotch open, Kreacher?” He brushed through the door and headed straight into the parlor, leaving Charlie to stand awkwardly in the doorway.

“Hi,” Charlie said, running one hand through his hair and wishing he’d worn something smarter. Draco Malfoy always looked like an ad for menswear. Or, at least, he’d looked that way every time Charlie had seen him. Even during the battle, scorched and wounded, he’d looked that way. It made Charlie feel like a ditch-digger by comparison, and the fact that Bill had made him roll up his sleeves wasn’t helping. Were his nails clean? Holy shit, he should say something. “I saw you in the paper.” _Nice one, Charlie. Stupid._

“There was a _picture?”_ Draco asked, sounding suddenly scandalized. 

“Oh, no, no picture,” Charlie answered quickly. “I suppose I meant I read about you. Quite a jailbreak. Impressive.” _Stupid, stupid idiot. What is wrong with you? He’s not THAT good-looking. Come on. Get it together._ “I mean… it seemed… um. Are you alright?” _Close mouth, CHARLES. Close mouth. Sink into ground. Return to Romania and wallow in shame. Fucking hell._

“Yes…” Draco said, tugging at his high collar before putting his hands behind his back in a disciplined sort of way. “I’m fine. But please, come in. I’d quite like my drink. I’ve had… a day.” 

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Charlie said as Draco closed the door behind him, and then blushed himself as Draco fixed him with a withering glare.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Do you have a church service to attend?” His tone was icy, but then two spots of high color appeared on his cheekbones and he turned on his heel. “Ahem. This way, please.” 

Bill was already sitting in the parlor with a scotch on the rocks, chatting with Kreacher, when they entered, and there was a second scotch sitting on the coffee table beside a high ball of something clear and garnished with lime. Bill looked up with another very charismatic smile, and gestured to the glasses.

“Kreacher says you like gin and tonic,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“I do not,” Draco answered, took up the glass, and perched primly on the edge of the sofa while Charlie sat beside his brother.

“A double for Master Malfoy,” Kreacher said, and bowed. “Master Malfoy is having a day.”

“Yes I certainly am,” Draco said, sucked the cocktail down like it was water, and handed the empty glass right back to Kreacher.

“Would Master like another?” Kreacher croaked.

“Yes, please, Kreacher,” Draco answered, and sat forward, putting his head into his hands. Then he abruptly seemed to remember that he had company and jerked back upright. “Pardon me.”

He sure seemed tense. Was he this tense all the time? Charlie supposed many families from old-money were pretty stuffy, and Draco had been pretty subdued at that first dinner, but this seemed more like nerves. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Nerves? If Draco was relaxed, that would probably mean he didn’t care.

Well, Charlie was nervous, too. Like there were bloody rocks in his belly.

  
  



	2. Foot, Mouth

“So…” Charlie began, but trailed off almost immediately and took a sip of his scotch. He was incredibly unprepared for this. He’d agreed to go along to the _bank,_ not to shoot his shot with Draco Malfoy. Fucking Bill dragging him here with no notice. Bastard. If he’d had more time to think it over, he could have… 

Well. 

Talked himself out of it, probably. 

Fucking _Bill._

“How, um. How is your mother doing?” 

He said it right when Draco was looking at his hands, and thank Merlin for that, because Bill glared at him so suddenly and with such scorn that it could have stripped steel. Charlie winced. Bill had practically lectured him over lunch at the Leaky: _‘Okay. So. Don’t say anything FUCKING STUPID. Nothing dark, or weird, and nothing about his family - his dad’s dead - and don’t ramble on about the care and feeding of dragons, either. No one wants to hear about that. Flatter him, tell him he’s good looking and smart, and then try to drop some lines about how good you are with your hands or something. And undo your top two buttons. Yeah, like that. Posh people love slumming it. They think it’s exciting. Plus, he fought with Harry, so you know he likes a bit of rough and tumble, and you’re a rough and tumble sort of bloke. All you have to do is not fuck it up. If Narcissa’s there, I’ll talk to her, and you know Harry and Snape will be staring into each other’s eyes, so you should have plenty of alone time once I set you up. Just don’t be weird.’_

“She’s doing very well, thank you,” Draco answered. “We’re to submit memories for our defense sometime next week, so she’s removing her Occlumency barriers. I meant to begin that as well, but I got a bit… distracted. It takes concentration, you know. And… quiet.” He picked at his nails and then immediately stopped picking at his nails.

“Do you practice Occlumency?” Bill asked, giving Charlie a surreptitious little nudge.

“Yes, I do,” Draco answered. “It was rather necessary there at the end.”

“They don’t teach that at Hogwarts, do they?” Charlie asked. “Bit advanced. Dangerous, too, or so I’ve heard. I never was one for the cerebral sort of magic.” Bill flexed one hand at him, and then very casually adjusted his ponytail. “I tend to…” Charlie squinted. “...do better with… my hands.” Bill blinked approvingly.

“No, they don’t teach it at Hogwarts,” Draco answered, brushing a nonexistent bit of lint off of his slacks. “Professor Snape tutored me personally. Took me under his wing. He’s quite an expert, you know. One of the most formidable Wizards in Britain, and certainly the strongest Occlumens I’ve ever met.” Kreacher arrived with his fresh gin and tonic and he took a more restrained sip from that one. “The most proficient Legilimens too, now that the - um. Now that the Dark Lord is dead.”

“I’ve heard that,” Charlie said. “Funny he taught potions for so long with his expertise. After what we saw at the battle, seems like he could have been training Hit Wizards.” Draco shrugged, his eyes still downcast, and Charlie frowned. Clearly he was fucking it up, but he wasn’t sure how. Other than being severely out of his league. _Flattery. Tell him he’s smart. Which he obviously is._ “It must have been hard to learn something like that with the stakes so high.”

“It… was,” Draco said, and looked into his glass, and Charlie looked at Bill for help. 

Bill mouthed silently at him: _Not. About. The. War. I D I O T._

“Ron tells me you play seeker,” Charlie tried, and finally, Draco looked up. And _thank god._

“Did he?” he asked, the ghost of a sneer on his face. “Let me guess, he told you I’m below par at best?”

Bill laughed. “Actually, he said you bought your way onto the team and it was really annoying that you were actually good.”

“Bought my way,” Draco scoffed. But then his eyes went distant, and he took a slightly larger sip. “Maybe.” 

“Well, either way, it sounded to us like you didn’t need the boost,” Bill said, swirling his own drink. “Charlie played seeker, you know. He was the Gryffindor Captain for three years.”

Draco glanced at Charlie over the top of his class and then away again. “My mother mentioned that,” he said. “You haven’t the traditional build for a seeker, though. Harry replaced you when you graduated, didn’t he? He must have weighed five stone.”

“Still seems to weigh about that, doesn’t he?” Charlie chuckled, and reached out to put his glass on the coffee table between them. Bill had told him to do that, too - said his arms were his best feature, and that Draco probably liked scars, and not to be such a prissy baby about it - but Draco responded rather oddly. Kind of a… twitch. But Bill didn’t seem to notice, so Charlie didn’t react, either. He just sat back in his chair. “I wasn’t particularly broad back in my Quidditch prime, anyway,” he continued. “Keeping Dragons is physical work. I really got thrashed the first few years.”

Draco’s eyes flicked over Charlie’s now-empty hands. “I’m sure you did,” he said.

“Well, I need to pay a visit to the gent’s,” Bill said suddenly, standing up. “Excuse me.”

***

Harry didn’t just take a single finger. He took _two,_ and at the sound he made when Severus very carefully started to fuck him like that, Severus wished so fiercely for more hands to put on him that it was almost a physical pain. He _needed more hands._ He needed one to wrap around Harry’s cock, and one for his throat. Two to pin him down, and still more to pull his hair, and scratch and slap and choke and pleasure him, all at the same time. But he was a man, not an octopus, and he had to prioritize. 

He pushed three fingers into Harry’s mouth, as deep as he could reach, intending to get them good and wet before tugging him off. But he didn’t get the chance. Harry defied his intentions by coming almost immediately - his reaction to having Severus’ fingers in his mouth while his body was stretched absolutely to its limits so violent and sudden that it caught Severus off guard. And Harry seemed a bit caught off guard, too, if the tiny, shocked squeak that came out of him was any indication. But preparedness was not a prerequisite to getting off, and he made an absolute mess of the pillowcases, his body tightening excruciatingly around Severus cock and fingers and his teeth scraping Severus’ knuckles.

There wasn’t anything much at all in Severus’ brain right when it happened, other than a general, _‘oh, yes, yes, yes,’_ sort of thought, but once he’d tipped over too, and the animal state Harry tended to inspire in him had faded, he remembered something. It came to him as he rested his forehead on Harry’s back, his heart still racing with the excitement of discovering a new way to please his lover. Perhaps it was that very emotion that triggered it, or perhaps being back in Number Twelve, or being in Number Twelve with Lucius Malfoy’s wife and son, or some combination. 

For there was a book he’d seen in the Black Family library, back when Grimmauld Place first became Headquarters. In those pre-Potter days, Severus had perused nearly every title in the house, and this particular one had been blank on the spine, and resting inconspicuously between two large and very dull compendiums of obsolete household charms. That suspicious lack of any title or author was how he’d noticed it, in fact, and he’d gone right for it, hoping to find a salacious diary or something of that nature. But it hadn’t been anything of the kind _,_ and when he’d seen the inscription, he’d put it right back, wondering which of the Black ancestors had been such a shameless hedonist.

 _Corpora Occultatum_ was the title, and that title belonged to an exceedingly rare collection of theory and spells that had been penned anonymously sometime in the sixth century. Infamous in some circles - the types of circles that contained Severus Snape, anyway - the legend was that either the author had never revealed himself for fear of reprisal, or he’d been discovered, executed, and erased from history. Society was rather less tolerant of deviancy back then than it was in modern times, which really was saying something. 

Severus had never seen a copy of it before, but he hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time. What use was something like that with no one in his bed? He’d had no particular prospects, and neither the time nor inclination to seek out something casual. And he certainly wouldn’t have traumatized a new lover with something like the spells rumored to be in that book, in any case. Now, though… If there was anything on earth that might make a fitting birthday gift for his very specific soulmate, it was wickedness so forbidden that the author stayed forever in the shadows. 

And Harry’s birthday wasn’t for over two months yet, which meant time to practice. If the book was still there, of course.

Immediately filled with enthusiasm for the idea, Severus cleaned Harry up along with the bedspread, waited for him to fall asleep - which he did in short order - and then took off his glasses, tucked him under the covers, and conjured a glass of water and a note. Then he drew the shades, and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead.

“I love you, you mad beast,” he whispered, and went out into the house in search of magical depravity. 

But he got distracted. 

There was someone in the house. A man, and not Draco. Or at least, not only Draco.

He drew his wand, despite knowing that anyone meaning them ill was unlikely to be speaking so openly. It must be someone from Hogwarts, or the Order. Perhaps Minerva had sent an emissary to contest his resignation, or one of the Weasleys had come looking for Harry. It might even be someone from the Ministry, though the voice was not quite deep enough to belong to Kingsley. He supposed a veritable crowd of people knew the location of Grimmauld Place after all the damage done to the _Fidelius_ after Dumbledore’s death. It would probably be good practice to strip it off and place a new one, particularly if this sort of thing happened more than once. 

He crept down the stairs, avoiding the places he knew held loose or squeaky boards, all the way down to the ground floor, where he caught sight of a red-headed someone lurking outside the door to the parlor. A red-headed, _pony-tailed_ someone, apparently eavesdropping.

Annoyed, he cleared his throat, and Bill started and whirled around. But instead of speaking - or apologizing for appearing unannounced, which might have been appropriate - Bill just gestured for Severus to be quiet, and beckoned him forward conspiratorially. Severus was not feeling particularly conspiratorial, however, and he rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to ask what in Merlin’s name the nonsense was about. But then Charlie’s voice drifted out towards them, and he understood.

He was still annoyed, though. Even more annoyed than he had been a moment ago.

_“Well, I was just wondering. If - er. I mean to say… if you’re. You know. Available?”_

Oh, no. Surely not. Not _now._

_“Available?”_ Draco asked. _“I daresay my social schedule is wide open while I’m waiting to be tried for terrorism.”_

_“Ha. Yes, I suppose it is. But I meant for… a drink.”_

There was a silence, and a tiny clink of ice, and Severus was so incredibly sure that Draco had just raised a glass to indicate that they were, in fact, having ‘a drink’ right at that moment, that an uncomfortable squeeze of second-hand embarrassment twisted the anger brewing in his belly. And to think, Severus had thought _Ronald_ was the Weasley with bad luck in love. What an abysmally inappropriate time to be attempting to woo Draco Malfoy. And the method? These two ginger morons must have no idea at all what Draco had been through to corner him like this. 

He glared at Bill, and Bill grimaced back at him and shrugged like this was all a lark, and wasn’t it so embarrassing that his brother was doing such a poor job? So humorous, wasn’t it? Trapping Draco Malfoy in a room with a man? Harmless fun. 

If you were a fucking _idiot._

Severus flexed his hand around his wand, torn between knocking out Bill’s teeth, and putting him in a body bind while he knocked out Charlie’s teeth. How fond of the elder Weasley brothers was Harry, exactly? He doubted Harry would find this much more charming than he did.

 _“No, I meant - out. With me,”_ Charlie said, and cleared his throat, and Bill, blissfully unaware of the faux pas currently in progress, cast his eyes to the ceiling, whispering to himself like he was praying to the gods of conquest. 

_‘On a date. On a date. On a date. Say it say it say it say it come on Charlieeeeee.’_

_“On a… date.”_ Charlie finally continued. _“If you’re… free.”_ Bill clapped a hand over his eyes, and Severus crossed his arms, abruptly deciding that what he was witnessing was, in fact, incompetence instead of predation. And that was a relief, as he’d been hoping not to commit any more murder now that the war was over.

_“I think I’m on house arrest,”_ Draco answered. 

_“Oh. Aha. I suppose I knew that.”_

Silence.

That was quite enough. 

Severus swept into the room.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, and Charlie and Draco both jumped and looked around, but Severus only had eyes for Draco just then. He was perched on the very edge of the sofa with his knees together and a glass held in both hands, looking like he was hoping to be mistaken for a very uncomfortable lamp. Good lord, didn’t Charlie have eyes? “I take it you’ve come about Harry’s vault.”

“Oh! Snape! Hello,” Charlie said, and Severus turned to him and saw that he, at least, had the integrity to be embarrassed. “We - Yes. My brother is-”

“In the hallway?” Severus interjected. “I know. Do come in, Bill.” 

“Where’s Harry?” Bill asked, strolling back into the room as if he hadn’t just been shamelessly eavesdropping on his own brother. “Usually he’s glued to you.”

“He’s having a lie down,” Severus answered, taking the seat beside Draco and folding his hands. “He’s still quite easy to exhaust.”

“For _you,_ maybe,” Bill laughed, but then pivoted into a cough as Severus gave him a cold stare. “I mean… poor thing. Well. I suppose I can give you this on his behalf.” He withdrew an envelope from his robes and passed it over, and Severus cracked the Gringotts seal and skimmed it. It seemed to be an official apology, along with a fresh set of totals with the note, _‘fee rescinded - war hero.’_

He closed it again. Harry was fine. Harry was safe, and loved, and sleeping off a very good orgasm upstairs. It was Draco who needed his attention, now. Draco’s _admirer_ who needed to be educated. Who needed to be unburdened of his ignorance, and possibly informed that the last muscular, fair-haired man caught ignoring Draco’s discomfort ended up with a sucking chest wound. 

“I appreciate your intervention on that issue,” Severus said, scanning Bill’s unrepentant expression and wondering if this was his fault. He didn’t seem embarrassed in the slightest, and _Charlie_ certainly hadn’t been considered a playboy in school. “Harry was beside himself at the idea that your family may have been similarly penalized. Which, I assume, is why you felt it necessary to hand-deliver this.”

“Oh. Yes, it seemed important,” Bill answered, insistently nonchalant. “And we _were_ penalized. But it’s been waived.”

“What penalty?” Draco asked. 

“Very good,” Severus said. “I’m sure Harry will be immeasurably relieved. Now, as you have inexplicably come in a pair, I might take advantage of your visit and collect a few of your memories for Draco’s defense. With your consent, of course.” He eyed the glasses on the coffee table. “If you aren’t drunk.”

“No, just had one,” Charlie said.

“Takes at least FIVE,” Bill added jovially. 

“I’m getting drunk,” Draco muttered.

“Yes, I can see that,” Severus said. “And your memories will keep. But I’d hate to retain the Weasleys unnecessarily.” He stood back up. “Charlie first, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh.” Charlie glanced at his brother. “I mean, yes, of course. Anything we can do to help.”

“This way, please.”

Draco let out a breath as their footsteps faded up the stairs, his heart inexplicably racing and his palms damp. Merlin, he wished Harry would come downstairs, too. He couldn’t handle this shit alone. No matter that Draco had thought about Charlie Weasley rather a lot since the battle, or that his mother had taken to teasing him about his new _friend -_ Charlie Weasley was not his friend. He was a stranger, and there was something extremely, alarmingly different about being confronted with him unexpectedly like that, even if he was one of Harry’s allies. Draco had just been trying to drink alone for Merlin’s sake. He wasn’t prepared to entertain _guests._ And it was rude, anyway, for the Weasleys to invite themselves in that way, particularly when the masters of the house were… indisposed. 

Yes. It was rude, and stressful, and he either needed a lot more gin, or a lot less, or he needed Harry to wake up and come take some attention off of him. Harry was an honorary Weasley, wasn’t he? He was a hero, and he was charming, and cute, and famous, and if he appeared, everyone would look at him, instead. Lovable, scandalously gay Harry Potter, who somehow tolerated being stared at by literally everyone in the country, up to and including Severus Snape. If Harry joined them - and probably sat on the fucking _floor_ like some kind of adorable _pet -_ Draco could have a second to figure out what in Merlin’s name was happening, and maybe sort of watch him to see how to act. Because Harry obviously knew _exactly_ how to respond to that sort of attention, as Harry was upstairs right at that moment, recovering from the very specific attention of one very specific man. And that was another thing. Harry obviously knew all about _that,_ too. Every single despicable thing Draco had been pretending to do all this time. Harry was doing it. And not just the regular _it,_ either. Advanced… it. 

He flushed. Maybe he should wish for his mother instead. She always pulled attention, and he hadn’t just heard _her_ begging for more of something unspeakable through the fucking ceiling. If she appeared, Bill probably wouldn’t look at him anymore. And why was _BILL_ looking at him, anyway? Bill was married to a TriWizard champion, wasn’t he? The girl one? 

Merlin, was there a target on his back or something? 

“So…” Draco began, wondering if he could just make some excuse and escape upstairs. Take a shower, maybe. Scrub himself and take a nap. “What penalty?” 

_“Dragon_ penalty,” Bill answered. “For stealing a _dragon._ Did you know my brother trains _dragons?”_

“That has been mentioned, yes,” Draco answered snidely, trying not to wipe his palms off on his trousers. “Though he looks rather more like he lays _bricks.”_

“He does, doesn’t he?” Bill chuckled. “You should see him with his shirt off.”

“That is an exceedingly odd thing to say about your own brother,” came Narcissa’s voice from the doorway. “Assuming that’s who we are discussing.”

“Oh, thank God,” Draco breathed, and Bill stood up. 

“Narcissa,” he said. “You look well.” He took her hand and kissed it. 

“Good afternoon, William. Severus gave my door a tap and said you were having cocktails. He had your brother practically by the ear.” She laughed sweetly. “He’s such a way with ex-students.” She glanced at Draco, and then at the glass in his hand. “What is that, a gin and tonic? How many have you had?”

“Two.”

“Two! Kreacher?”

“Yes, Mistress Malfoy?”

“Mix up another gin and tonic for Draco, will you? And a Gimlet for me.” 

***

Up in the library, Severus warded the door and pointed at one of the armchairs. “Sit,” he said.

Charlie sat. “Why do I suddenly feel like a first-year in detention?” he asked, giving a false little grin that really just made him look fearful. Severus ignored it and _accio’d_ a second armchair, placed it directly in front of him, and took a seat.

“So,” he began, withholding the opening salvo, _‘are you fucking blind?’_ at the last moment. “I take it you’re interested in Draco.”

“Oh,” Charlie answered. “I… yeah. I am.” He seemed to rally, and a small spark of the vaunted Weasley temper ignited behind his eyes, though it did little to mask his discomfort. He was still clearly off-center and embarrassed, and that, more than anything else, let Severus know that his choice to defer hostilities had been the right one. “I don’t see how it’s any of _your_ business.” 

Severus just looked at him. “I’m afraid you’re incorrect there, Mr. Weasely,” he said. “Draco is my business.”

“What are you, his new dad?” Charlie demanded, but then winced. “I mean… He’s an adult, isn’t he?”

Severus tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, annoyed. 

“I am aware that Draco is legally an adult,” he answered. “And no, I am not even remotely his father, though I have been told I am old enough to be.” He held up a hand to forestall an interjection. “And despite your clear and multi-layered misunderstanding of the situation, I am not trying to frighten you off. I am, in fact, attempting to help you dislodge your foot from your mouth. So please, give me the courtesy of lowering your bristles.” 

“Help me?” Charlie frowned. “Then… what’s with the false pretense?” he asked. “And the -” he waved a hand to indicate the silenced door.

“No false pretense,” Severus answered. “I do intend to extract some memories from you and your brother for use in Draco’s trial. I was simply hoping to take this opportunity to offer you some advice. Privately, if you’ll hear it. Man to man.” He hesitated, but then decided to stick the knife in anyway. Charlie deserved it, just for being so bloody dense. “Though if what I overheard in the parlor is all you have in your repertoire, it may be a lost cause.”

“Of course it’s not!” Charlie shot back, indignant. “I just - wasn’t expecting to-” he stopped, and sat back. “Bill ambushed me.”

“I did get that impression, yes. And how has taking Bill’s advice gone for you so far? Has Draco blushed prettily and taken your token?”

“Well, no.” Charlie scowled at his own boots. Magically reinforced dragonhide, by the look of them. “Not exactly. I didn’t expect him to be so… I mean. It feels a bit like I’m barking up the wrong tree.”

“You aren’t,” Severus said brusquely. “And believe me, if I hadn’t seen him looking at you before now, you’d be in St. Mungos in a body cast. Now, do you want my advice, or shall we move on to forcibly separating you from your own thoughts?” 

“I… suppose I’ll hear it.”

“Wise.” Severus steepled his fingers, regarding him steadily and without visible emotion. He was a large man, Charlie Weasley. Muscular, and calloused, and broad. The slight stretch of his button-down across his chest brought to Severus’ mind the strength in Rowle’s clutching hands as he’d twisted the knife, and he wondered at Draco’s fortitude, having stayed in the room at all. But then he thought of his own fingernail marks on Draco’s neck and back, and the way he’d tried so hard to stay quiet through it all. To control himself, when he could not control his circumstance. To be strong, and take it like a man. 

A shiver threatened under his skin but he controlled it. 

“Have you spoken to Harry’s companions about Draco’s situation at all?” he finally asked.

“No,” Charlie answered. “Just that he’s a traitor. Turned back when Ron and the others were captured.”

“A traitor, yes…” Severus agreed, taking a moment to filter his thoughts to preserve Draco’s privacy, inasmuch as that was possible while also preserving his body and psyche. “But I’m afraid there’s rather more to it than that. Draco suffered… uniquely… during the war. He hasn’t had much time at all to process what he’s been through - as, indeed, none of us have - and he can understandably be somewhat prickly when feeling vulnerable. I think perhaps you were not aware that you were having that effect on him.” He paused, waiting for confirmation or denial. Or complaint, or indignation, or what have you. 

“I guess he seemed sort of… nervous,” Charlie allowed. 

“Nervous,” Severus repeated, trying to recall if Charlie Weasley had been dumb as a post in school or if this was a new development. “I should think so. He’s spent the last year in a very specific hell, and he’s had no chance to develop anything but a recoil response to… pursuit. Particularly from a man of your physical presence.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to _pursue_ anyone,” Charlie said, sounding offended.

“No?” Severus countered. “You hardly know him, and yet you appear here unannounced, where Harry brought him to keep him safe. You conspire with your brother to get him alone - to _corner him._ And why?” He raised his eyebrows. “Because he’s attractive?”

“Well… yeah,” Charlie answered, shifting uncomfortably. “I guess.”

“Yes, well, I’m not surprised,” Severus continued evenly. _“Men_ do tend to find Draco Malfoy attractive, don’t they?”

“Attractive people are usually found attractive, yeah.”

Severus pursed his lips. “At this point I might encourage you to use your imagination in deducing what sort of men Draco has been around as of late.” 

“Mostly I’m aware of him being around _you,”_ Charlie said shortly. “Quite a lot, or so I’ve heard. Is there some kind of arrangement between the two of you that I’m not aware of?” He squinted. “Or that _Harry_ isn’t aware of?”

“What a fascinatingly low blow,” Severus answered. “You must be feeling very exposed. But no, I am not interested in Draco sexually, though I am objectively aware of his face and body, just as I’m aware of yours. I am no more that boy’s lover than his father, and Harry could be sitting in my lap and this conversation would be exactly the same.” He paused, suddenly recalling why he’d left Harry upstairs in the first place, and swept the room with his eyes. To think, if he’d stayed to bask instead of going in search of that book… And there it was, too, in the far left corner of the largest bookcase: a slim, blank spine, wedged between two thick leather-bound compendiums. He’d come back for it later. “...I keep no secrets from him.” 

“Why are you telling me to fuck off back to Romania, then?” Charlie demanded. “If I’m not stepping on your _toes.”_

Severus turned back towards him and rested one elbow on his armrest. “Charming,” he said. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that it was nerves that prevented you from reading his body language instead of an inherent lack of empathy, or something more sinister, and that it is nerves preventing you from understanding spoken language, now. I am not suggesting that you _‘fuck off’_ anywhere. Draco Malfoy deserves many nights on the town and many satisfying rolls in the hay, and I have no interest in standing in the way of any of it. So allow me to spoon feed it to you, Weasley number two, and do try to pay attention. That boy has been treated as much like an object as is possible without his being literally bought and sold, and I would strongly suggest that you treat him like a _person_ and not a _body_ if you want to get anywhere at all. Some people might find the sorts of tactics you and your brother employed today affecting, but I am telling you that if you give chase, Draco will either freeze, or flee. And I mean that quite literally.” He leaned forward. “So tell me, Charlie, does terror appeal to you? Do you find it exciting?”

“Er… no,” Charlie answered, and he glanced back towards the door, his combative expression finally dissolving. “I don’t. And I don’t really like that question, either.” 

“No,” Severus allowed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t. And it would be unfortunate for you to upset him without understanding why, don’t you think?”

Charlie looked back at him critically. “I was expecting you to say that if I treat him badly you’ll make me regret it.”

“Well, as you’ve managed to think of that yourself, it appears it was not necessary for me to say it,” Severus answered. “And in that vein of conversation - which is, I’ll agree, a pertinent one - allow me to assure you that every man that has ever laid a hand on that boy in violence is either dead or in custody.” Except for Severus himself, of course.

“That sounds like more than one.”

“It was.”

Charlie searched his eyes. “Not just Pettigrew,” he said slowly. “I thought maybe you meant… Pettigrew. You called him an aggressor, during the battle. ‘Draco’s aggressor.’ I heard it.”

“Unfortunately no, it was not _‘just’_ Pettigrew,” Severus answered. “It wasn’t even primarily Pettigrew. And if you think a pathetic insect like that could cut Draco Malfoy off at the knees, you are sorely mistaken.” He picked at the edge of his bandage and then folded his hands. It was not his place to speak of Rowle’s predatory sneer, or his fist in Draco’s hair. It was not his place to speak of the way Rowle had offered to leave Draco’s _pretty face_ intact, like it was his property to give and take, or of Draco begging for mercy, or of the queue of _men_ that thought they were entitled to his body and tears. It was not his place. Draco could tell it, if he ever felt safe enough again.

“So…” Charlie said as the silence lengthened. “Are you telling me to leave him alone? Because I will, if you think I’d… you know. Hurt him.” He gave a tiny, miserable shrug. “I’m not trying to do that. Not to anyone. I just...” his mouth twisted. “I wasn’t trying to.”

“If I thought you were trying to do it, I would not be wasting my time with you,” Severus said. “Allow me to put it another way. It is my understanding that you are considered an expert in your field, is that true?”

“By some, yes.”

“Very humble. And are you aware of how Harry and his cohorts escaped from Gringotts?”

“Yes. It was in the paper.”

“I’m sure it was. I imagine most people were quite shocked to discover that Gringotts keeps dragons down there, in the dark. Have you ever seen the condition of the Gringotts dragons? I think you must have, with a curse-breaker for a brother.” 

A shadow passed over Charlie’s face, and a muscle in his jaw jumped. 

“I have,” he said, and suddenly, he seemed rather less like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “It’s offensive, the way they’re treated. How anyone could keep a beautiful animal like that in the ground long enough for it to go blind, I’ll never understand. Let alone the _training.”_ He shuddered. “It’s disgusting.”

“Yes, it is,” Severus agreed. “And I see that you have some passion for the subject. Harry released that dragon into the wild, you know. So I wonder… how might you approach a creature like that, if you came across one?”

“Well,” Charlie began, and his eyes twitched like he was looking at something far away. “I’d approach slowly, particularly if it was wounded, or nesting. And… if it could still see, I’d show my hands. Show that I wasn’t a threat, if I could. Dragons are very intelligent. They respond to body language. Sound. Music, sometimes. There’s an Opaleye we saved from poachers as a whelp, and she -” he chuckled softly and looked at his hands. “She likes whistling.” But then the corner of his mouth turned down, and he looked back up. “And no hot swords.”

Severus nodded sagely, and leveled his gaze. “Draco has been very strong,” he said, “Far stronger than I ever could have imagined. He deserves kindness, and compassion, and respect, and I am speaking to you now not to correct you, but because I consider you capable of those things. I do hope I am not mistaken.”

Charlie just looked back at him in silence for a long moment, and though Severus thought he might, he did not ask any more. He did not ask what specifically Draco had suffered, or when, or at whose hands, or how Severus had been involved. Instead, he said something else. 

“Well, let’s get on with keeping him out of prison, then, shall we? What were you hoping to get out of me?”

Severus relaxed. “I must confess I was hoping for a number of perspectives on his kicking Peter Pettigrew in the head,” he answered. 

“Oh, yeah, I have that. I saw him defending you and Harry, too. At least for a flash. I was pretty busy, but I sort of remember… you were against the wall, and he had his arms flung out. I think you were wounded.”

“Yes, an arrow to the shoulder.” Severus waved his wand, conjuring a cluster of small glass vials with jointed stoppers. “Harry healed it. Do you practice Occlumency, Charlie?”

“No.”

“And have you ever been subjected to Legilimency?”

“No.”

“Very good. If you don’t try to keep me out, it shouldn’t feel like anything at all.” He held his wand aloft. “Eye contact, now, if you please.”

  
  



	3. For Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Readers. I, like many of you, am having a shitty time. Thank you for all your comments and love, and I apologize for the (relative) delay in updates. It's hard to concentrate. But I hope you enjoy!

When Harry woke up, he was alone in an extravagant bed that he was pretty sure he’d never seen before in his life. It was dressed in luxurious navy-blue velvet, and he was way too hot, and thirsty as fuck, and it was weirdly dark, and there were so many pillows that sitting up felt like trying to swim through mashed potatoes. 

Disoriented, he felt to the left of his body, and then the right, and then murmured a vague complaint and moved to kick off the heavy quilt. But he didn’t quite accomplish that goal. His body protested. Jeez, he was sore. Why was he so…?

His eyes snapped open as he abruptly recalled absolutely everything, including what might have been the most humiliating noise he had ever made in his life. 

Christ.

And here he’d thought that Severus’ cock was just about as much as he could take. 

Wrong. _Way_ wrong.

Raising one hand out of the morass, he summoned his glasses, and then very gingerly propped himself up to sit. The pain wasn’t actually that bad, now that he was expecting it. Mostly it was a _used_ sort of feeling - and the aftermath of a spanking, of course - which he didn’t mind at all. What he did kind of mind was the fact that his bed was empty. He didn’t feel like he’d been asleep all that long, and it was pretty unlike Severus to leave him alone, particularly after doing something new to him. He’d hardly disappeared after pinning Harry’s head to the wall that first time, and this felt like just as much of a revelation. So, what was the deal? Severus was supposed to be sitting there, reading a book and looking completely unaffected, so he could peer down at Harry with that _eyebrow,_ and say, _‘welcome back, love. How was it for you?’_ Or, _‘color?’_ Or something.

Maybe he was just in the bathroom, or getting Harry a glass of water, or -

But there already was a glass of water, and beside it, a folded bit of parchment. 

Harry blushed. Merlin, he must have passed right out for Severus to have left him a _note._ And drawn the shades, too. 

Embarrassing.

He picked up the little paper. 

> _You did very well, as usual._
> 
> _Find me in the library if you wake before I return._
> 
> _-SS_

He smiled. If Severus had been even half as free with his praise for the first five years as he was now, Harry might have ended up a bloody Potions Master, too. A Potions-mastering, Occlumency-doing, reality-violating, defense-expert-boy-hero that could _also_ control his gag reflex AND withhold his magic. And… do his homework. And win at chess. 

He chuckled, set the note aside, and downed the water. Then he touched his cuff.

 _Just gonna change my whole outlook on life and then disappear, huh?_ he thought. _Rude._

 _[Oh, is that what I’ve done?]_ appeared in answer _. [My apologies for vanishing from your bed, then. I didn’t intend to be gone so long, but we’ve had some unexpected visitors]_ A little shiver of fear touched Harry’s spine at that, but Severus continued before he could even ask. _[Nothing to be alarmed about. The eldest Weasleys arrived with a document from Gringotts. I read it, I hope you don’t mind]_

 _Of course I don’t mind,_ Harry thought. _What did it say? And it’s our bed, not mine._

_[Our bed, then. Though it is technically yours, along with everything else in this house. As for the missive from the bank, I think you’ll be pleased. The fees have been returned, and cringingly. It gave me the impression that the Goblins fear your wrath]_

_Ha,_ Harry thought. _Bill set them straight?_

_[Apparently. I’m with Bill just now extracting some memories for the trials, and he says he’s never seen a Goblin cry before. Although I suspect that may be Weasley Bullshit]_

Harry laughed. _Tell him thanks._

_[I have, and he assures me that it was no trouble at all, and that there is no such thing as ‘Weasley Bullshit.’ Do come downstairs when you’re ready. Draco’s having cocktails in the parlor and should be quite an adventure just now]_

_Oh, fun,_ Harry thought, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Too bad Draco had been such a prat at school. He was really a party once he’d gotten sloshed. The Weasleys were excellent drunks too, if Harry’s experiences with Christmas at the Burrow were anything to go by. Bill especially was - hey, wait. 

_Bill is right there with you?_

_[Yes]_

_Can he see the bracelet?_

A pause. _[Not anymore]_

Harry grinned, imagining Severus hovering over his arm like a student with a passed note. _I was wondering why you didn’t ask if I was sore._

_[Are you?]_

_Yeah._

_[Unpleasantly so?]_

_No,_ Harry answered. _I like it. Feels good._

_[I’m glad to hear it]_

Harry ran his hands over the velvet coverlet. _I don’t like these sheets, though. They’re too heavy. Woke up all sweaty._

_[So transfigure them. They’re yours]_

_Just like everything in the house?_

_[Yes]_

_Even you?_

That time there was a long pause. _[Are you trying to get me to say something soppy in front of your adoptive brother?]_

Harry laughed again and scrunched up his face, instantly transforming the bedclothes into a fair replica of Severus’ old ones. He liked those. Liked the way Severus looked in them, anyway. And they didn’t feel like they were made of lead.

_Yep._

_[Well, I’m afraid you underestimate me, my love. Heart of my heart. Weeping wound of my soul. North star of my mind, and divine blessing upon my pitiful life. Of course I belong to you]_

_Haha. Well, likewise. I’m going to take a shower._

_[Do]_

***

“Are you two always like that?” Bill asked as Severus covered his bracelet again. 

“Yes.” Severus answered shortly, and pointed his wand between Bill’s eyes. “Pardon the interruption. Now, Peter Pettigrew’s incapacitation. Ready?” He did not wait for Bill to say yes. _“Legilimens.”_

***

Harry padded into the bathroom and looked around. He’d been in there once before, of course, back when Kreacher hadn’t let anyone at all stay in the Master Bedroom, and it looked just the same, if substantially cleaner. The huge, claw-footed copper tub with too many taps sat in the very center, with a large many-drawered vanity on one side, and a row of sinks on the other. In the far corner stood the shower, a cubicle of tiles etched with yet more serpents, and he dropped a plush towel on the floor beside it turned to look at himself in the mirror. His first general impression was that he was starting to look a little bit better. His second general impression was that Wizards never seemed to have full-length mirrors, and that was annoying because he really wanted to see if Severus had left any good handprints on him. Well, he’d just have to balance on the edge of the tub again, like he had after getting the belt that first time. This bathtub was a lot bigger than Severus’ had been, though, and very far away from all the walls, and Harry was precariously balancing one foot on the lip and hoping he didn’t break an arm when he suddenly remembered that he could just make a bigger mirror if he wanted one. 

He scoffed at himself. 

He’d _just_ transfigured the sheets. How long was it going to take to get the whole _godpowers_ thing into his practical brain? Hermione would have rolled her eyes straight into the back of her skull if she’d seen him clambering up on the tub like an idiot.

He flicked his fingers at the far wall, and then twisted himself around to look at his arse in the new floor-to-ceiling mirror. 

Yep. Marks.

Nice. 

***

“That is… very uncomfortable,” Bill said, shaking his head as Severus sealed the last vial and labeled it - _Weasley, William: Harry Potter heals Draco Malfoy, invites to sit with friends along with mother_ . He had a neat line of them, now, each identified by source and content. Draco sinking a foot into Pettigrew’s face, demanding, _‘still want to be my master, Wormtail?’_ Narcissa running through the battle calling for her son, unarmed and frantic. Draco standing alone against the chaos while Harry cauterized Severus’ shoulder, and, surprisingly, Draco cackling in glee at the Dark Lord’s misfortune. Charlie had been the one to see that, and against the blood streaking Draco’s face, his elation had been very striking. The sort of thing that might create a fixation, really. 

“Yes, it can be uncomfortable,” Severus answered, pocketing the lot. He hadn’t been very gentle at all. Had quite wrenched the images out of him, really, like breaking into a locked door with a crowbar, and though Bill had not vomited, he had gotten very sweaty, and it served him right. “Your memories are admirably clear, though. Well done.”

“Thanks?” Bill asked, rubbing his forehead, and they returned to the parlor together, just in time to see Draco shriek and jerk back as a green envelope swiped at him with it’s flap. 

“PAPERCUT!” Harry guffawed while Draco shook out his hand and cursed. “They must not like you. Seems like they only like me, really.” He looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and at the sight of Severus standing in the doorway, his face lit up. And that, Severus didn’t think would ever fail to feel like a vice around his heart. “Hey! All done?”

“I am indeed,” Severus answered. “I see you’ve released your pets.”

“Just the one,” Harry said, leaning back on his hands. “Never got to show Draco, before. Oh, watch this!” He sat forward again and held out his hand, and the envelope, which had been threateningly balanced on one corner like it was trying to look tall, tottered over to him and then lay flat on its face and twitched its flap. “I thought I’d feel bad trying to open one, but it seems like they want me to. Isn’t that _weird?_ They want me to _rip them open_ and _take out their insides!”_

 _Just like you,_ Severus didn’t say, though it was on the very tip of his tongue. Not an appropriate thing to say in company, particularly not when he’d spent the early afternoon doing just that. 

“Are you going to give it what it wants, then?” he asked instead, taking a seat on the sofa beside Narcissa, who was watching Charlie with an air of casual and nonthreatening interest. “It’s practically begging.”

“So _weird.”_

Charlie squinted down at the envelope, which did indeed appear to be trembling with the desperate desire to be opened. “Yeah that is pretty weird, Harry,” he said. “Are they all like that?”

“No, I got regular non-living letters, too. These needy ones are all from Rita Skeeter.”

“Huh. Pretty aggressive.” Charlie turned to Draco and offered his hand. “May I heal that?” he asked, and Draco, who’d been sucking on the wound looking disgruntled, jumped and whipped his finger out of his mouth. 

“Oh,” he said, and Charlie watched his eyes twitch across his open hand, over to Snape, and back again, and Merlin, it was so obvious. 

_What a fucking clod you are, Charlie Weasley. Like a Ridgeback in an antique shop._

“Won’t take a moment,” Charlie continued, and looked at his own hand, spreading his fingers and turning his arm just fractionally until his scars caught the light. “As you can see I’m well versed in healing spells,” he chuckled. “And let me tell you, paper cuts are right up there with poison fangs.” 

“Are they?” Draco asked, and hesitated just a moment longer before laying his hand into Charlie’s waiting palm. And though Charlie had expected his skin to be soft, it was even softer than it looked, and closing his fingers so lightly around Draco’s wrist that it could hardly be called a grip, he had to wonder who on God’s green earth could look at skin like that and want to break it. “I suppose you’ve a lot of experience with fangs.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Charlie agreed, touching the very tip of his wand to his finger. “Fangs, barbs, claws, fire, blunt force trauma… the usual. Some things still leave scars, even with the best healing charms, but I don’t mind scars much, myself. _Consilio.”_ He let go as soon as it was done, and directed his attention to Harry where he was leaning back against Severus’ legs. “Isn’t that right, Harry?” he asked. “Scars add character.” 

“Yup!” Harry answered, and brushed back his fringe. “Nothing more attractive than looking like you fell face-first onto a broken bottle as a baby.” 

Severus gave Charlie a miniscule nod and ruffled Harry’s hair back into place. “And here I’d always thought you got into a duel with a very tiny zeus.” He gestured to the envelope twitching itself surreptitiously across the floor towards Harry’s feet. “Go on, then. Put the poor thing out of its misery, and let’s see what Rita has to say to you that’s so obnoxiously urgent.”

“Oh, fine,” Harry said, and picked the letter back up with the very tips of his fingers. “Sorry. Let me just… um…” He grimaced, prising the parchment free with exceptional care, and then put the suddenly inanimate envelope down onto the rug. “Ick. Ick. That’s weird, too. Oh.”

“What’s it say?” Bill asked, attempting to give Charlie a questioning look now that everyone’s attention was directed to the letter. Charlie ignored him. Charlie was going to ignore Bill forever, in fact. As far as he was concerned, Bill could fuck right off into a lake. Even if he did look kind of sick.

“This is… really odd,” Harry said, and read aloud. _“‘Dearest Harry, please contact me as soon as you can. You can trust me. Sincerely, Rita.’”_ He frowned. “‘Dearest Harry?’ That’s… really not what I was expecting.”

“Let me see,” Severus said, and took it from him, even turning it over to see if there was more on the back, which there wasn’t. “Hm. There are quite a few… Maybe this is referencing an earlier one?”

“Maybe…” Harry said, and clambered to his feet. 

The remaining letters started hopping up and down in their terrarium-like box as he approached, visibly anxious they’d be forgotten, but they needn’t have fretted. Harry opened them all one by one, each offering itself to be disemboweled in turn. 

_“‘Dearest Harry,’”_ he read. _“‘I know I haven’t been in contact with you during the war, and I’m sorry, but please know that I think of you every day, and hope you will write back soon. You can confide in me now, the way you did with your true story three years ago. Sincerely, Rita.’”_ And, _“‘Dearest Harry, I’d love to have you over for tea. You can tell Professor Snape it’s an interview about the war. I can write to him, too, if you think that might help. Just let me know. Sincerely, Rita.’”_ And, _“‘Dearest Harry, if you’re getting these letters, please contact me. Sincerely, Rita.’”_ And, _“Dearest Harry, I can help you tell your story. You’ve trusted me once, trust me once more. Sincerely, Rita.”_ And, _“Dearest Harry, I know you have had a hard life, but not everyone means you harm. If you just contact me, we can tell the world the truth together. Sincerely, Rita.’”_

Nothing specifically about giving a statement, and no attempts at fact-checking, and certainly no begging for forgiveness for publishing such invasive bile. Just _Dearest Harry,_ and entreaties to meet, and weirdly vague statements about Harry’s tragic life, including one that referenced _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore,_ including the phrase, _‘I am not trying to use you like he did.’_

It was almost like… 

“Does she think she’s helping me?”

***

Charlie and Bill did not stay for dinner. Instead, Charlie made their excuses almost immediately after the opening of the letters, telling Harry that they were expected back at the Burrow to help with final preparations for the funeral. Which was, of course, a lie. The funeral was already fully planned, taking place as it was in less than two days, and all that remained was to put up security wards around the cemetery the morning of the service. But Harry didn’t know that, and Charlie was absolutely not going to try to invite himself to dinner, or for dessert after dinner, or for a night cap, or whatever else, no matter how many weird looks his brother tried to give him. He was going to leave Draco alone. That was what he was going to do. 

And that was what he did do.

“What’s the deal?” Bill asked the moment they appeared in the Burrow’s front garden. “You didn’t listen to me _at all!_ What happened to asking him to walk you out? And what the fuck were you flirting with Harry for? You’re supposed to stay on target!”

“Leave it, Bill,” Charlie answered, and turned towards the path, but Bill caught his arm. 

“But you were _so close!”_ he said, exasperated. “He didn’t say no, you got interrupted! And he was just playing hard to get with that house arrest comment, anyway. Trust me, I know what those sorts of games sound like. You should have put the pressure on!”

Charlie scoffed and jerked his arm free. “I said _leave it,”_ he repeated. “Ok?” Bill rolled his eyes.

“What, did Snape put the fear of god into you? Come on. He can’t tell us what to do anymore. Don’t be a girl.”

“How about _you_ don’t be a _bellend_ for _two fucking SECONDS!”_ Charlie barked back, and Bill raised his hands, surprised.

“Hey, what’s your problem? I’m just trying to help.”

“Yeah, well _don’t._ I don’t need your help, and I don’t want it. So _don’t.”_ He turned away again, meaning to march into the house, but stopped. He was pissed off. Way more pissed off than he’d thought he was. Almost vibrating with it. He faced his brother. _“‘Put the pressure on?’”_ he sneered. “That’s gross, Bill. That’s a gross thing to say. You’re the kind of man that likes to use force, is that it? Huh?” Charlie gave him a little push. “Is that what you like?” Bill jerked back as if slapped.

“Oi! That’s out of line!”

“No, _you’re_ out of line!” Charlie spat. “Pressure! Disgusting. You-” He broke off, clenching his hands into fists and forcing them to his sides. What was he going to do, fight his own brother? The man he wanted to fight was out of his reach. Dead, or in prison.

The _men._

“Just -” He took a deep, steadying breath, and Bill stepped back. 

“Charlie, hey,” he said. “What did Snape say to you?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Charlie finally ground out. “And don’t ask me again, alright? It’s _private._ Even you should understand what _private_ means.” He walked away.

***

“Hey, Charlie,” Ginny said, her hands sunk deep into a bowl of sticky bread dough.

“Hey, Gin,” Charlie answered. “Need help with dinner?” 

“Sure.” She blew a hank of hair out of her face, and tilted her head towards the cutting board. “Want to get those onions? Ron and Hermione are supposed to be helping, but they’re busy trying to figure out how to get her parents back from Australia. I guess they enrolled in some kind of tooth school even though she made them house painters. How’s Harry? Did you see him?”

“Oh, yeah, I saw him,” Charlie answered, took up a knife, and manually hacked the first onion right in half. “He seems really happy.” Ginny glanced over at him, her eyebrows raised.

“That’s good…” she said. “How are you?”

“Me?” He tore the skin off both pieces. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Ginny just nodded, and turned back to her dough. That was one of the things Charlie liked most about Ginny. She wasn’t an invasive arsehole like _some people._ And so, while his family coalesced around the dining table, and conversation moved from Harry and Snape, to Hogwarts, to Australia, and to what exactly _tooth school_ was, and everyone tiptoed around George and Percy and very studiously did not say a single word about the looming service, Charlie just chopped. He used his hands - which was actually his preference and not just some bullshit Bill told him to say to impress someone posh - and cut onions, and potatoes, and garlic, and cubes of chicken. He set stock to simmering, and melted butter. He ignored Bill and his wife whispering to each other in one corner, and cast salt, and ground peppercorns, letting the familiar movements soothe him until he could focus. And there, over the stove with his hands occupied, it was Draco he focused on. 

He went back over his every word, and gesture, and expression, reevaluating the way Draco had sat with his knees together and his spine so straight, and the way he’d looked at his hands, and his glass, and his slacks, and the floor. And that little twitch, which Charlie now recognized for what it had been. Not a twitch, but a flinch.

Charlie had reached out to put down his glass, and Draco Malfoy had _flinched._

He tossed his skillet, pausing to stir a saucepan with his other hand, and rehashing the conversation he’d bungled, he understood that, _‘Professor Snape tutored me personally,’_ really meant, _‘I have a protector.’_ And as Charlie knew full well from whelping dragons, _‘I have a protector,’_ really meant, _‘please don’t hurt me.’_

Please don’t hurt me.

He would have picked up on it earlier if he hadn’t been so focused on his own shortcomings. He was good at spotting fear, normally. He’d learned that skill the hard way, for nothing could put a green dragonologist in his grave faster than unrecognized fear in his animals. Well, he supposed he should be grateful that he hadn’t listened to more of Bill’s rubbish instructions. _Make a move once you’re alone,_ indeed. _Touch him. His back, or his knee. Tuck a bit of hair behind his ear, that sort of thing. Gentle now, rough later. He’ll love it._

What a fucking mistake that would have been.

Thank Merlin he hadn’t done something unfixable. 

But then he remembered something, and a cold frisson of shame raced down his spine.

He’d announced to a table full of people that Draco would look good with a black eye, hadn’t he? A whole table full of people. 

He stared blindly into the pan of sizzling potatoes, paralyzed.

Merlin, why had he said that? That was the sort of thing you might say to someone that had gotten into a fight, and _won it._ Not… whatever had happened to Draco. 

How was he supposed to have known? He’d been hearing about Draco Malfoy from his younger siblings for ages, and none of what they’d told him matched up at all with the afternoon he’d just had. According to his family, Draco was arrogant, wealthy, and prejudiced. Totally dependent on his looks and money and unashamed of it - a pureblood prince of the highest order, lording his status over those less prestigious - a budding Deatheater, ready to lay himself at the Dark Lord’s feet for the glory. 

Charlie had listened to his younger siblings bitch and moan about _Malfoy this_ and _Malfoy that_ for over five years. _Malfoy cheats at Quidditch,_ and _Harry won’t stop talking about Malfoy,_ and _we got banned from matches for the year for defending Mum’s honor from Malfoy._ ‘Malfoy’ was obviously nothing but a spoiled brat following in his father’s footsteps, unworthy of even the most cursory respect. The worst kind of old money, concerned only with maintaining his own privilege. But then ‘Malfoy’ had risked his life to help Ron and the others escape to Shell Cottage when they surely would have died, and ‘Malfoy’ had turned on his own friends to get them out of that mad secret room. And then, finally, right at the end, Charlie had actually seen him. And ‘Malfoy’ - Draco - had been just as refined and beautiful as the insults had always implied. But he’d been stark, too. Harsh. Like a piece of art. Whipcord thin, with high cheekbones and eyes the color of a winter sky, his platinum hair tipped with blood, his preternaturally fair skin black and blue underneath a cloak of ash. Not a Deatheater - not anymore - but a traitor of such status that You-Know-Who himself had demanded his head specifically. By name, in the same breath as Severus Snape. 

Draco was not the same boy that his siblings had mocked and fought and railed against, if he ever really had been. And why should he be? Charlie’s siblings weren’t the same, either. Ron was different, and so was Percy, and Ginny, and Bill, and… George. And Charlie was different, too. No one was the same, and nothing ever would be the same again, so it shouldn’t be such a surprise that terrible things had happened to Draco. Terrible things had happened to all of them. 

He might have even known it already, in a way. He’d seen Draco’s face when Pettigrew, trussed on the ground, had tried to beg for mercy that he obviously did not deserve. He’d seen the disgust and hatred in Draco’s eyes, and heard the cracked snarl of rage in his voice: _‘filthy rapist.’_

And Pettigrew did seem like a filthy rapist. All Deatheaters did, now that he thought about it. And there had been a lot of Deatheaters. 

_‘That sounds like more than one.’_

_‘It was.’_

“Is something burning?”

Charlie jumped and jerked his skillet off the heat. “No!” he called back, giving the potatoes a vigorous toss. “Just - almost! I got it. It’s fine.”

***

After dinner, Harry and Severus stayed up late with Rita’s letters and a bottle of wine, reading them in a variety of different sequences and combinations to try to tease out her intentions. They even recruited Narcissa and Draco as impartial judges after a while, but that only split the consensus further. Narcissa arranged the letters in what she thought might be chronological order and concluded that Rita was trying to coax Harry into an interview, possibly by fostering the false belief that it was off the record. Severus remained steadfast in his conviction that Miss Skeeter was a soulless tabloid vulture that would sell her own left leg for a sickle no matter what arrangements the letters were given, while Harry insisted that his original interpretation had to be correct. Rita either thought she was doing him some kind of favor, or she had a death wish, and if she really was a _soulless tabloid vulture,_ then she obviously didn’t have a deathwish, did she? 

Draco, however, did not have much to say at all. Not about the letters, and not about anything else. He just curled up in the corner of the sofa, nursing another cocktail and watching. Or, at the very least, staring into space. 

Severus was keeping an eye on him, of course - his senses primed for any sign that Draco should, perhaps, not be left alone - but he realized that Harry was doing just the same when his bracelet warmed with the message: _[I think maybe we should talk to Charlie]_

It took Severus by surprise, though really it shouldn’t have. Harry’s incisive intuition couldn’t be limited to his own person, could it? No, of course not. It was just usually _pointed_ at his person. Harry could probably strip anyone on earth down to the studs with no trouble at all, and Draco had hardly been one for sitting quietly out of the way during the first six years of their acquaintance. He was visibly withdrawn, and Harry had seen Charlie looking at Draco, and Harry had seen Draco being dragged away during the battle, and Harry knew Charlie, and Harry knew Draco. Therefore, _Charlie accidentally scared Draco and we should fix it._

Simple. 

Severus wrapped an arm around his waist and pressed a kiss to his hair. 

_“I already have,”_ he whispered, and Harry looked up at him with his own precious brand of sparkling adoration, and then looked back at Draco, and went to sit with him, instead. Plopping down on the opposite end of the sofa, he opened his hands and presented a parchment-paper dragon of such intricacy and charm that it startled a gasp of delight right out of Draco’s mouth. 

“Hungarian Horntail!” Harry said, sending it over to alight near Draco’s legs, flapping and baring its paper teeth. “Faced one of those in the TriWizard. Really angry about us trying to steal its eggs, remember? Highest stakes Quidditch match of my _life.”_

“You lose, you die?” Draco asked, and set his glass aside, carefully offering one hand to be investigated. The little Horntail hopped closer, touched it with his nose, and then lifted one of its legs and took hold of Draco’s index finger like a parrot. “You got the worst one, too. That’s what everyone said. Sharp all over.” Draco wiggled his finger in the dragon’s grasp, and then glanced up shiftily. “Oh. Sorry about all that… uh…”

“It’s okay,” Harry answered dismissively. “You were hardly the only one being a knob to me. A lot of people were. Even Ron, for a while. He thought I wanted more attention or something. But then, y’know… dragons. I guess it seemed a bit less fun after that.” 

“More mortal danger for you. Oh-” The Horntail chuffed like a cat and stepped up onto Draco’s hand, and Draco held it away from his body, a little taken aback. “What’s it-?”

“Aw, it wants to be friends,” Harry chuckled. “Full size they’re way scarier. Bad way to go, death by dragon. Good thing I _cheated._ But everyone cheated, I guess. It was like… a tradition. Or something.”

“You _cheated?”_ Draco gasped. “But you’re a Gryffindor!”

“Sometimes Gryffindor’s _cheat.”_

“Pff. I thought Gryffindor was supposed to be the noble house.”

“Well, I suppose I did help my competitor cheat, too. Is that noble?”

“My _God,”_ Draco scoffed, but the dragon ruffled itself in an annoyed sort of way, and he went still. “Um. Does it breathe fire, do you think?”

Harry considered that. “I dunno. I hope not. I guess I didn’t think it through that far.” The dragon cocked it’s head, swished its tail, and exhaled a little puff of confetti to sprinkle down onto Draco’s clothes. “Ha! There you go. Paper shreds.”

“How do you do this?” Draco asked.

“What, make things?”

“I… yeah.”

Harry shrugged. “Just sort of comes out. Really scared myself the first couple of times. You can ask Severus. I fainted.”

“Right to the ground,” Severus said without looking around.

“Used to happen a lot.”

“Huh.” Draco lifted his hand a little closer to get a better look, and got a face-full of confetti for it. Then the dragon kicked off of his fingers, flapped up to his head, and sat down. 

Draco burst out laughing.

“That would have been a very sweet romance,” Narcissa said quietly, leaning back against the letter-strewn table with a sigh as Draco covered his face with his hands, giggling breathlessly and covered in bits of paper.

“Those two?” Severus asked, looking up to meet Harry’s eyes for a fraction of a second before turning back to Rita’s bizarre entreaties. “Maybe in another life.” He shifted one of the letters to the left with his finger. “I know he seems harmless, and I mean this in the most charitable way possible, but Harry would run your son straight into the ground.” His bracelet warmed, and he glanced down.

 _[What are you talking about? I am harmless]_ he read, and exhaled a little breath of laughter himself. _[Like a kitten]_

“I don’t doubt it,” Narcissa chuckled, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t kill that reporter, alright? It’d be such a shame for you to end up in prison.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” 

  
  



	4. The Prince's Tale

Harry and Severus paid a visit to Rita Skeeter first thing the next morning. They left early, hoping to catch her before she left for work, and upon appearing outside her home on the outskirts of Wimborne, they were immediately confronted by a truly ostentatious menagerie of hedge animals.

“Well, fuck me,” Harry said, looking up at a three-meter tall ostrich carved from juniper. “I suppose she did well for herself with that book. Last time I saw her she couldn’t even afford to get her nails done.”

“Scandal lines the coffers, and always has done,” Severus answered. “Which is why she’s harassing us.”

“Maybe.” They peered through the creatures towards the house, the front door barely visible between a pair of breaching dolphins. It really was a monstrosity of new money, and very jarring to see so early in the morning. “Do you think she’s here?”

“We’re about to find out,” Severus answered. “Ward the property against apparition, will you? She may try to run.”

“Oh no, It’s Severus Snape!” Harry said, clutching his chest in a mock-swoon. _“Flee!”_ Then he scuffed one foot against the sidewalk, and frowned. “Hm. Ok, see if you can apparate.” Severus turned on the spot and absolutely nothing happened. 

“Very good,” he said. “What line are we taking?”

“I suppose it depends on what she has to say for herself,” Harry answered with a shrug. “But if she does try to stand by what she wrote, I’m thinking maybe something like, _‘I’ll have your Quick Quotes Quill, or your head. You choose.’”_

“Very diplomatic.” Severus gestured to the sinuous, decorative path. “After you.” 

They began picking their way towards the entrance, Severus scoffing at a series of marble columns topped with golden letters spelling out the word, _‘Skeeter,’_ while Harry side-eyed a truly horrendous hedge alligator with gemstone eyes that looked rather like something his Aunt Petunia might buy if it wasn’t so huge. 

“Tacky…” Harry said under his breath, and then when he saw the actual door, gasped in horror. The bronze knocker was shaped into Rita Skeeter’s profile, ornate curls and all. _“Tackyyy,”_ he repeated, grimaced, and struck it twice.

“Who in Merlin’s name is calling at this hour?” came a voice from inside, along with a shrill barking. “It’s hardly seven! Hush, Petal!” 

‘Petal,’ did not hush. ‘Petal,’ sounded like she was ready to go to war. 

“It’s me, your old friend Harry Potter,” Harry called back. “I got your letters. May I come in?” 

There was a smashing sound in the distance, like fine china hitting stone.

“But - Harry? Thank _Merlin-”_

Harry raised an eyebrow back at Severus at that reaction, but before he could speak, the door flew open to reveal a dressing-gowned Rita Skeeter with rollers in her platinum blonde hair, and what looked like an animated powder-puff at her feet. 

“Oh, Harry! Harry!” she cried, reaching for him with her red-taloned hands. “I've been out of my mind with wo-” She stopped suddenly and went white, and right then, Harry knew he’d been right. Rita _did_ believe her own lies, and she _did_ think she was helping him, and she was about to scream, and that was not good. 

“Whoa, ok,” Harry said quickly over the little dog’s frantic yapping, waving Severus back. “Rita. Hey. How about that tea?” He touched his bracelet. 

_[Wait just wait wait]_ appeared on Severus’ wrist, and he looked back up to see Harry wipe a hand quickly over his mouth and down his neck, leaving pristine, unmarked skin in its path. Not a single bruise, nor scratch, nor imprint of teeth remaining to indicate even one iota of rough handling. So Severus took his cue from that, smoothing his own face into a neutrally affectionate expression. The sort of way he might regard a husband of fifteen years going into a grocer’s. Not the usual way he looked at Harry, certainly.

“I’ll take a stroll around the neighborhood then, shall I, love?” he asked. “You can call me when you’re finished.” He folded his hands behind his back. “Or if there’s any trouble.”

“Ok, Severus, thanks,” Harry answered lightly, his body still angled towards Rita standing horrified in the doorway. “I will.” He glanced over his shoulder, and flicked his eyes towards the topiaries. “Love you.” Then he took Rita by the arm, led her inside, and closed the door. 

Severus did not take a stroll. Instead, he cast a disillusionment charm over himself, sat in the shade of a saber-toothed tiger near the path, and waited. Watching his bracelet, he occupied himself wondering what sort of animal that little beast had been. It hadn’t really looked like a dog - its face was too squashed. Maybe it was a rabbit. Or a hybrid of some kind. Something illegal. A rat mixed with a puffskein, maybe… or a miniature harp seal crossed with a ball of shed cat hair. And then he wondered what Harry was saying, and how long it would take him to convince Miss Skeeter that he wasn’t a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever misapprehension she was laboring under. And though he did not get an answer to his first question, the answer to the second one was, apparently, forty-five minutes. Harry could be very persuasive when he wanted to be.

 _[Sorry]_ appeared, sparkling on his wrist. _[Ok to call?]_

“Ready when you are,” Severus answered, lifted his charm, and stood. _“Chimera.”_

He appeared in a blinding white and pink kitchen with a large marble island, where Harry was sitting on a stool in front of a sterling silver tea service. Severus looked around. It was completely devoid of all sleazy reporters, and battle-ready cotton balls.

“Where is she?” 

“Rita’s cleaning herself up,” Harry answered, tugging another stool out with his foot. “She got a little upset.” 

“I see,” Severus said, and sat beside him. “What did you tell her?”

“The truth,” Harry answered with a half smile. “Off the record, of course. I hope you’re ready to give an interview.”

“An interview?” Severus asked. “About what, you? I hardly think _increasing_ the public’s adoration of you will staunch the flow of Howlers.”

“No, not me,” Harry answered lightly, sliding a decorative spoon a bit closer so that it lay parallel to the tray. He was looking very intently at that spoon, and Severus felt a little tickle of foreboding. But, no. He couldn’t possibly mean Severus to - “I want you to talk about yourself. All the things you’ve done, and why. For the war, and for Dumbledore, and for me. Your story, as much as you’ll tell.”

“Harry…” Severus began slowly, looking at his own reflection in the teapot. “This could backfire horribly. Surely you realize that.” The idea was awful. All of his terrible deeds, splattered across the tabloids? _The whole country_ knowing all of his sins? Harry couldn't want that. He just didn’t know what he was asking. 

“It won’t,” Harry said, and looked up at him. Severus could see it in the shined silver, their faces distorted by the belly of the pot. Harry’s eyes hugely exaggerated, and Severus’ pinched to beady black dots. “It won’t backfire. You have immunity from prosecution, and we have all the leverage, and she owes me, besides. Owes me extra, anyway.” Harry’s eyes searched his profile for a long moment, and when Severus did not look up, he reached out to touch the very edge of his jaw. The pressure was very light - his fingers not so much turning Severus’ head as asking him to turn his head - and after a moment more, Severus obeyed. “Hey,” Harry said, catching his gaze and holding it. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t my plan. You know I didn’t even have a plan. But she was really, really sure that you were… sort of… keeping me captive. You know, _controlling_ me. She’s been sitting on that information about the hearing for ages, hoping you’d die in the war, and I’d be free, and no one would have to know what you’d _‘done’_ to me. But you didn’t die, and I didn’t answer any of her letters, so she thought if she told everyone, that someone would… take me away from you.” His eyebrows drew down in the center. “She was trying to help, just like Lupin, and McGonagall. And all those Howlers… ” He took one of Severus’ hands, and looked down at it. “Severus. These people all think they’re helping me, because they don’t know _you._ If they knew you… what you’ve done…” He quirked a tiny, ironic smile, and lifted Severus’ hand to his lips. “I’m being selfish, though. Vindictive. I’m not proud.”

Severus frowned. “And how’s that?”

“I want everyone to be jealous, so I can lord my good fortune over them,” Harry answered against his knuckles. “Let the whole Wizarding World weep for losing out on a man like you.”

Rita cleared her throat uncomfortably, and Severus looked up to see that she had decked herself out in a tweed pencil skirt and matching blazer, patent-leather stilettos, stockings and all, and had applied red lipstick and black wings of eyeliner, though they were not particularly smooth. And she was clutching her little pet to her chest like a comfort blanket. 

“Professor Snape,” she said in a voice rather higher than seemed natural. “Um… welcome to … my home.”

“My many thanks for your hospitality, Miss Skeeter,” Severus answered. The dog barked once, and Rita jumped. 

“Hush, baby, hush,” she whispered, saw Severus’ expression, and laughed shrilly. “This is Petal. Um. Let me just… put her upstairs.” 

Severus watched her retreat again.

“That woman thinks I’m going to kill her dog,” he said. 

“Yeah but you _won’t,”_ Harry scoffed, and reached for the kettle. “Tea?”

Severus looked appalled. “You drank her _tea?”_

“What? Gesture of faith!”

“My God, Potter. Have you learned nothing?”

“So sorry. She gets excited,” Rita tittered, clicking back into the room. She set an alligator skin handbag on the marble island, and started rummaging anxiously inside it. “Well, lets begin, shall we? Time and tide wait for no man, and all that… ahaha. Where in the bloody hell- oh! Here we are.” She withdrew an acid green quill and a sheaf of parchment. “Now we can-” The quill turned into a house gecko in her hand and she shrieked. “Oh! I’m sorry. I forgot! No quick-quotes. I’m so sorry. I meant - wait a moment. I’m sorry, Harry. So sorry-” she plunged her hand back into her bag, nearly in tears.

“Rita,” Harry said warningly, and she made a sound rather like a bit of air being let out of a balloon. “Were you listening when I told you that Severus is not going to do anything to you?”

“Am I not?” Severus asked, leaning one elbow on the marble and tenting his fingers, enjoying her fear. His bracelet warmed.

 _[No, you are not]_ he read _[If she flips out again we’ll be here all day]_

He backed off. “What sort of creature is your charming… Petal?” he asked, and Rita looked up and blanched.

“A - p-pekingese,” she breathed.

Severus’ bracelet warmed again.

_[Severus. No]_

He pursed his lips. “Well, she seems like a very… lovable… companion animal. And please, take a breath. I am, apparently, not going to lay a finger on you, despite your slanderous reporting. Harry has assured me that your intentions were good, if severely off the mark.”

“He’s not a Deatheater,” Harry added, and Rita’s eyes danced between the pair of them and then fixed back on her open bag. She rummaged frantically, huffing in frustration, and then finally, at long last, located a glass ball about the size of an orange. 

“Oh, thank _Merlin,”_ she whispered, and then what sounded to Severus like, _‘come on Rita, you can do this. Exclusive. Exclusive. Exclusive. Here we go.’_ Then she took a deep breath, and looked at Harry. “Is a visual record alright?” she asked. “I’m afraid traditional quill and ink isn’t fast enough for my reporting. Do you mind?”

“Does it record, or does it generate bullshit?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.

“It… records,” Rita answered. 

“No _‘eyes glistening with the tears of his past?’”_

“Um - no. None of that,” Rita answered quickly, flushing even under her makeup, and Harry waved at her to continue. It was quite a pretentious gesture, and Severus wondered if maybe Harry was enjoying her fear, too. “Right. Ahem.” She swallowed, patted her curls, and tapped the ball with her wand. “Testing, testing. My name is Rita Skeeter, best-selling author and award-winning field reporter for the Daily Prophet.” She tapped it again, and a little miniature _award-winning field reporter_ appeared inside, repeating her words exactly. “How’s that? Alright? Good. Um… Where do you want to start?”

Severus noticed that she was still addressing Harry, like she was too scared to look at him, and that made him feel a little bit better. He supposed terrifying tabloid reporters was a happy side-effect of torturing the previous Minister of Magic to death. Not that she knew whether or not he’d really done that, of course. Which he had. Magically, and manually. It had taken ages to get all the blood off.

Harry’s hand rested on his knee under the counter and gave him a gentle squeeze, and he realized he’d just been staring at Rita’s device and snapped out of it. 

“Just tell her who you are,” Harry said, and when Severus looked into his eyes, he found them warm and sincere. Honest, and loving, and… hopeful. 

“The Wizengamot will not be pleased about this,” he tried.

“Was it in the contract?”

“Well… no.”

“Then fuck the Wizengamot.”

Severus searched his face. “You want me to do this?” he finally asked, and Harry smiled his small, sad smile.

“Yeah,” he answered. “I do.”

Severus rubbed his eyes. “As you wish.” He took a deep breath, and let it out very slowly. “My name is Severus Snape,” he began. “And… I am a half-blood.”

***

And so, Severus started to speak, and he did not stop for nearly six hours. And all that time, Harry sat quietly by his side, just listening. Much of what Severus recounted, Harry already knew, of course, but certainly not all of it, and at times in the telling Severus found he didn’t dare look at him, and instead directed his words to the middle distance, or to the glass globe. At times, he was worried he might not be able to get the words out without his voice cracking or wavering, but in the end he stayed steady, as he almost always had.

Rita was so anxious that it took her a while to really understand just what she was getting, but as Severus spoke into mid-morning, her cowed demeanor gradually burned away in a frenzy of manic euphoria. It seemed a bit like she was trying to hold it in, but was failing rather badly, and when she could not withhold her interruptions, or when she exploded in her need for clarification or detail, Severus did his best to answer truthfully, and thoroughly, and to keep his irritation at bay. 

He did not try to sugar-coat, or smooth away. He did not try to paint himself as a hero. He just told the story, with as much clinical detachment as he could muster. He spoke of falling in with the Deatheaters, and of taking the Mark, and of grooming others to do the same. He spoke of the depth of his loyalty in those days, and his desperate desire to please. He spoke of kowtowing to the Dark Lord - still handsome back then, with more charisma than mere mortals could bear - and of using his cutting intelligence and willingness to sink himself to the neck in the dark arts to become one of His favorites. He spoke of Harry’s mother. Of alienating her with his budding extremism, of losing her love and her friendship, and of how he had been the one to relay the prophecy to his master, effectively signing her death warrant. He spoke of realizing his awful mistake, and of what it would cost, and of groveling and begging at Albus Dumbledore’s feet. For Lily, and then, many years later, for her son. 

He told Rita Skeeter, and by proxy, the entire country, about retreating to Hogwarts when the Dark Lord fell, and about lying in wait for years, and about his Mark reappearing by degrees, bringing with it a mortal terror deeper than any he’d ever known. He spoke of doing his best to keep Harry at arm’s length when he arrived at school - to hate him so furiously on the surface that his protection was miniscule by comparison - even as he foiled the Dark Lord’s convoluted plots at every opportunity. He spoke of tiny triumphs and huge defeats. He spoke of taking Narcissa’s hand and making the unbreakable vow, and of dragging Draco from the grounds after he - yes, he - had killed Albus, and why he’d done it. He spoke of leaving Harry in the dirt, and praying to every god he could think of that he was strong enough to survive alone. He spoke of their great separation, and of the Carrows, and of trying and failing to protect his charges at school. He spoke of Albus’ portrait, and it’s apparent quest to break his heart, and the sword, and the snow, and Harry’s ribs so visible through his skin that it felt like physical pain even to see it. And _sending him into the water like that._

As he held forth past noon, he began to realize that he had never told the whole story that way before. Not even to himself. He’d compartmentalized his life into sections - into bubbles and pockets of time - by necessity. The identities he’d worn at the beginning, middle, and end distinct enough to have been different men. But they were not different men. They were all him. They were all the poor, ugly, beaten-down urchin from the wrong side of the tracks that had tried to hide his magic from his own father. The right-hand of the Dark Lord was that urchin, and so was the man sitting in Rita Skeeter’s sparkling kitchen with Harry Potter’s head on his shoulder. 

They were all him, and it was his story, and Harry wanted him to tell it, and tell it he did. Everything from the moment he’d first looked at a muggle-born and thought _subhuman,_ all the way up to the last _Avada Kedavra,_ and everything in between. Or, at least, everything that might not ruin the lives of the people he cared about. He did not, for example, tell Rita the specifics of his physical relationship with Harry, or how and when precisely it had begun. Nor did he get terribly graphic regarding the sorts of things that went on in the Dark Lord’s Headquarters, or the details of the threat leveled upon Draco, or of the exact circumstances in which he’d killed Rowle. But aside from protecting his people, he told her the tale of his life as best he understood it, and all of his mistakes, and all he’d meant by what he’d done. And when he was finished, Harry apparated them back to Number Twelve, and Severus excused himself to the restroom, and rather surprised himself by vomiting. But he felt a little better after it was out, and did not speak of it. And if Harry’s eyes lingered on his face when he was done, he did not ask, which Severus found quite kind.

His Harry was so kind. Kind enough that when they laid down together that night, he seemed to know that Severus felt rather less like a lover right then than a skinned carcass, and did not push. Instead, he just curled up beside him in the dark, carding one hand through Severus’ hair and stroking the pad of his thumb against his temple with gentle, insistent regularity. He stayed quiet for a long time, too, just touching, until long after the house had settled into silence around them. And when he finally spoke, it was with the soft, questioning lilt that he’d so often used in the dead of night, back in the beginning, when the secrets between them had been like an ocean.

“Severus?” 

“Hm?” Severus murmured back, his eyes closed and his breath artificially slow against the persistent and very irritating threat of tears. 

“I was just wondering…” Harry continued, his thumb still gently stroking, occasionally dipping down to brush over his cheekbone, or press against the muscle of his jaw. “Do you think it’s possible to fall in love with the same person more than once? Without ever falling out, I mean.”

“I do,” Severus answered, thinking of Harry's eyes sparkling with reflected moonlight out on a windswept beach. Of Harry sitting quietly with his legs crossed and his hands curled in his lap, and Harry poking the Head Auror in the chest, and Harry boosting himself up onto Severus’ desk, and a thousand other small moments, each one a fresh sting of unbearable adoration. “Why ask that?” Harry, at Rita Skeeter’s table, holding his hand. 

“No reason,” Harry answered. “I just think maybe that happened to me today, that’s all.” 

That was all he said, but it was enough. Too much, really. Like a hammer set to a clay pot, and all at once Severus lost the battle with his tears. And badly. They poured out of him, an excruciating gush of twenty years of grief and guilt and fear, so hot he felt they might boil into steam. And it hurt - it _hurt_ \- but there was no controlling it. There was no holding it back, and he did not even try. He turned onto his side, seizing Harry’s waist and hair and burying his face, unashamed of his weakness for what must have been the first time in his life. He wept into Harry’s skin, his body heaving with sobs, not so much splintering as disintegrating - and Harry’s hands splayed over his skin, over his back and shoulders, like he thought he might be able to hold him together that way. Harry was murmuring something to him, too, though Severus couldn’t quite hear it over the sound of his own gasping breath. But that was alright. He didn’t need to hear it. He could feel it, unspeakably precious in the touch of his hands, and the warmth of his body, and the steady beating of his heart. For he knew everything, now. He knew it all, and he had not recoiled. Had not so much as asked why. And he was not asking now, either. He was just whispering the same words over and over, in a low, continuous litany. The same words, like he had always known they were true, right from the very beginning.

_You’re a good man, Severus. You’re a good man._

***

Rita, for her part, dashed off a quick owl to her bosses at the Prophet the moment Severus and Harry left, telling them to fuck absolutely everything else because she had the exclusive of a lifetime, and then stayed up all day and night painstakingly transcribing her recording by hand. Rolls upon rolls upon rolls of parchment piled up around her, and her fingers stained black, but she paid that no mind. The story was all that mattered, and she had never in her life heard one like this. Everything fit together. Absolutely everything. Albus, and the Potters, and the Order of the Phoenix. The Dark Lord, and the coup, and the Horcruxes, and the _bracelets -_ It was incredible. Like being let behind the curtain of history. And to think, she’d been so sure she was about to die.

When the sun came up, and she’d finally reached the end of the interview, she cast a quick freshening charm over herself, gathered up her scrolls, and the sphere, and apparated straight to her office. And there, she ignored the inquiring and disapproving looks of the secretarial staff (apparently she’d left barefoot. Oh well), and dragged all of the editors and reporters into a conference room. Some of them complained, at first, but all fell silent as she placed her recording on the center of the staff table and tapped it twice with her wand, projecting the image of black haired man beside a black haired boy onto the wall. 

“Holy shit,” her editor said. “How did you get this? No one could get within a hundred meters of either of them.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Rita answered, and they all watched in silence as Severus Snape turned to look at Harry Potter, and began.

By ten that morning, everyone in the building had crammed into the room, including the security guards, leaving the doors completely unmanned. And when a scheduled delivery of food arrived for lunch, and the Wizard that brought it finally found everyone, they all shushed his irritated complaints and pointed to the wall. 

_“And you killed him?”_ Rita was asking.

 _“I did,”_ Severus answered. _“I killed him, and I took Draco, and I ran. But Harry saw it happen, and he came after me. Albus had put him under a freezing charm, you see, and it broke the moment he fell…”_

The delivery Wizard set the food on the floor in the doorway, forgotten, as Harry took Severus’ hand and squeezed it, and as Severus’ expression abruptly shuttered.

_“Amycus Carrow crucio’d him. I heard his voice - his screams - and turned back. I knocked Amycus off of his feet. I told him that our orders were to leave Harry unharmed, which was quite true.”_

_“Why did He Who Must Not Be Named give you those orders?”_ Rita asked. _“Didn’t he want Harry dead?”_

_“Oh, yes. But He wanted to do it personally. Partly because of the Prophecy, but I believe it was his ego more than anything else. The Dark Lord would have no other hand strike Harry down after all the times Harry bested him. To lose that triumph to an underling? Shameful. It would have been an unbearable blow. And thank God for that.”_

_“So, you kept Amycus Carrow from hurting him,”_ Rita said. _“And then what happened?”_

 _“I left him,”_ Severus said with a small shake of his head. _“I left him.”_ And the entire staff of the Daily Prophet watched Harry Potter lean towards the man beside him, rest his temple on his angular shoulder, and look down at their interlaced fingers. They watched his thumb stroke over the back of Severus’ hand. _“He called for me,”_ Severus continued softly. _“He screamed my name, but I knew I could not stop. I had to get Draco to his mother, or die. I had to maintain my cover, or die. And I had to get the Deatheaters away from the school. I had no choice. I left him.”_

Harry turned his head just a little so that his forehead was resting on Severus’ shoulder instead of his temple, and closed his eyes. _“I love you,”_ he whispered.

“What kind of reaction is that?” one of the beat reporters hissed, and someone shushed her. And then, as Severus recounted his flight to the Manor, and the terrible days and weeks and months that followed, someone gave her a handkerchief, and they all listened with rapt attention to how close it had all come to ruin, and how many times, and they watched as Harry did something with his hands under the counter, his head never leaving Severus’ shoulder as Severus spoke words like _‘silence,’_ and _‘despair,’_ and _‘sleepless,’_ and _‘alone.’_ And then, at long last, the staff of the Prophet stood riveted by the return of Harry’s magic, and the rescue from the cellar of Malfoy Manor, and the discovery of The Dark Lord’s quest for the Elder Wand, and who it’s true master was. 

_“So, what, it was you all along?”_ Rita asked.

 _“That, I do not know,”_ Severus answered. _“There were some complicating factors. But it belongs to me now, yes. In fact…”_ he reached down towards his feet, and withdrew a long, slender wand.

“Is that it?” someone whispered. “Is that the Elder Wand? Where did that come from?”

“His _boot_ be _quiet,”_ Rita hissed back. “Watch!”

_“Might I ask if this recording is admissible in court?”_ Severus asked, gesturing straight at his unseen observers with his empty hand. _“Is this device considered reliable?”_

 _“I… yes,”_ Rita answered, adjusting her bejeweled spectacles. _“It’s DMLE-grade. Just. Um. Second-hand.”_

Someone else in the room tittered and was summarily shushed.

_“Very good. As you know, though I have not quite reached that point in this story, I killed the Dark Lord with this wand. It is fifteen inches. Elder wood, with a thestral-hair core. It was taken from Mykew Gregorovich by Gellert Grindelwald, who subsequently lost it to Albus Dumbledore. The night I killed Albus, it either transferred to Draco Malfoy by disarm, or to me by death. Sometime later, Draco was himself disarmed by an assailant - Thorfin Rowle - a Deatheater whom I first intimidated into backing down, and then later killed in Draco’s defense. The Dark Lord never disarmed me, nor has anyone else. Therefore, I either became the true master of the wand the night Albus died, or the night of the battle, and I remain so to this day.”_ He regarded the priceless artifact in his fingers with what looked to the assembled Witches and Wizards like contempt. _“This wand has caused nothing but pain. It cast the curse that nearly ended Harry’s life, and I have no desire to wield it.”_ He handed it to Harry beside him. _“If you would, please, love.”_

“What’s he-?”

Harry looked at Severus once, and then rested his elbow on the counter, held the wand between his forefinger and thumb, and incinerated it.

Absolutely everyone in the room screamed.

“BE QUIET!” Rita bellowed. “QUIET! QUIET! THERE’S SO MUCH MORE!”

_“Thank you. Where was I? Ah, yes. Draco. He was tortured for allowing Harry to escape, but was left alive. The Dark Lord did not realize that it was a willful betrayal until it was far too late. He thought Draco was broken - that he was incapable of acting independently after being left in my hands. It was a critical error among many.”_

_“I - oh. Um. Yes. So - Draco Malfoy. He was tortured?”_

  
  



	5. A Fresh New Day

It was a beautiful spring morning in Ottery St. Catchpole on May the Eighth, and though Mr. Weasley and his eldest sons got up very early to place anti-intruder wards all around the little chapel and its cemetery, they needn’t have. For though they did not know it, every reporter of note in Britain was at that moment crammed into a single conference room, and would not be coming anywhere near Fred Weasley’s celebration of life. They would not, in fact, reach the retelling of the end of the battle until near three that afternoon, at which point they were to spend the next several hours maniacally plotting out the series of articles that would surely net them all Golden Quills, and when they were done, they would go out to a bar to celebrate, and by the time Rita woke up the next day it would be past noon, and she would be on her arse with the worst hangover of her life with a paper crown on her head, her makeup smeared, and her editor in her bed.

“Is that enough?” Bill asked, putting the final touches on one last security spell, ensuring that their little plot of grass and headstones had protections on it rivaling the Quidditch World Cup. After the layers of charmwork they’d cast, no one uninvited would be able to so much as see the place, let alone enter. 

“I hope so,” Mr. Weasley answered. “Your mother would have a cow if reporters showed up to harass Harry. He is coming, isn’t he?” He looked between his sons, who were standing rather farther apart than normal. “Did he say?”

“I mean… he didn’t say he _wasn’t_ coming.”

***

The first thing Harry registered when he woke up was that it was early, the blurry sliver of sky visible through the drapes a tepid, dusky blue. The second thing he registered was that he was on his back, and Severus was practically on top of him, his face tucked in against Harry’s neck, and one arm and leg thrown over him like a very large and heavy koala. And that was slightly cuddlier than usual, though Harry supposed they hadn’t been sleeping in the same bed for all that long. Maybe Severus was always cuddly after very scary explosions of hysterical crying. How would he know? He’d only seen Severus _really_ cry once before, and that- 

Well, that didn’t bear thinking about, did it? Especially not first thing in the morning. He should think of something else. Like… the funeral. Or, well, maybe not that either. The trials. Yes, and whether or not they were going to get in trouble for giving an interview before they’d even submitted memories. That seemed like the sort of thing you weren’t supposed to do, even if it hadn’t been in their plea deal. 

He blinked at the ceiling, wondering what time it was, and if Rita had already gone to the Prophet with her little glass ball. Probably she had. Probably she’d gone the night before… or just broken into her boss’ house with her weird little dog. She’d want to get the story out as fast as possible, Harry was sure. A few days, maybe. Just enough time for the Prophet to get their perspective in order, and gather some supporting evidence, and whatever else. If the Prophet even messed about with _supporting evidence,_ which they didn't seem to. It would take ages to corroborate everything Severus had said, if there was even a soul alive that could, and the Prophet _had_ spent the whole war trying to convince the country that Harry and his criminal friends were the real threat. So… probably no fact-checking. 

He tried to imagine how they were going to handle the story at all. It had been _way_ more than Harry expected it to be, both in volume and content, though in hindsight that was quite stupid. He’d known Severus had fought in both wars, and on both sides, and had obviously lived a full and eventful life, but… Jesus. How Severus had even had the brain space to bother with Harry at all was a mystery. All the things he’d been doing, and worrying about, and suffering, while Harry was single-mindedly pursuing him in the middle of the night. It was a miracle he hadn’t just put Harry in a body-bind and taken a bloody nap. 

Severus exhaled against his skin, his breath long and slow, and Harry swallowed, trying not to fidget. Severus pretty much never slept in, and it felt early, so there was still a bit of time before they’d have to get ready to visit the Weasleys. Time to figure out what to wear, and choke down some food, and maybe time to do something about the fact that Harry was hard. Because of course he was hard. He was seventeen, and it was morning, and there was a very firm thigh nestled between his legs, and that thigh was attached to Severus Snape, who got him hard pretty much just by being alive. 

Not his fault, even if he had no idea how Severus would respond to a rutting teenager in his bed right then. He’d been so upset, he might want to be left alone for a while. Or… he might want to be Sir, or he might be angry, or embarrassed, or sad. It was hard to tell how Severus would feel about things, sometimes, and what he’d gone through the night before had been a new thing. It was like he’d cracked open his ribcage and dug the story out with a penknife. Just… bled it right out onto Rita’s kitchen floor. And Harry hadn’t meant to do that to him at all. But it was done, now, and if the Prophet bollocksed it up, he would just have to burn the whole place to the ground. Because only a hopeless or evil moron could twist Severus’ story into something that painted him as anything but a hero deserving of the most prestigious military honors. Was there something higher than an Order of Merlin First Class? If there wasn’t, it should be invented just for this. An Order of Merlin _Gold,_ or an Order of Merlin _Diamond,_ or an Order of _Fuck, We All Almost Died Except This One Bloke Really Knew What To Do And Damn Did He Do It._

He hoped Severus felt okay when he woke up. If he did, maybe he’d let Harry suck him off in the shower or something like that. And if he didn’t, that would be fine, too. They had ages and ages, and if he was still upset, Harry could wash his hair, or bring him tea, or just sit quietly and not be annoying until he felt better. Lord knew if he was angry it would be justified. As usual, Harry hadn’t had any idea what he’d been asking for. And, as usual, Severus had given it to him anyway. But whatever the Prophet ended up publishing, it had to be glowing if the whole staff didn’t have their heads up their own arses. It had to be. And when it was out, Severus would know for sure that it had been the right thing to do, and would forgive Harry for making him do it. If he was still upset, anyway. 

Which he might be.

“I can hear your brain whirring,” Severus murmured into the crook of Harry’s neck. Harry started.

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were awake.”

“I wasn’t until just now,” Severus answered in his lowest rumble, sliding his palm up Harry’s chest. “What are you thinking of so early in the morning, hm?”

“A combination of… um… what I’m supposed to wear today and…” Severus nuzzled up against his ear, and goosebumps frizzed across his skin. “And - and - sucking you off in the shower.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but it came out all at once before his brain could withhold it. Mercy, he was fucking _hopeless_ like this.

“I see,” Severus said, sliding his hand still higher - over his collarbone and neck, and into his hair. “I’m starting to think you may have an oral fixation.”

Harry didn’t know what that meant, so he ignored it and hoped it wasn’t important. “How are you feeling?” he asked instead, and hesitantly raised his own hand to stroke over Severus’ back, over the ridges of old wounds, and the sinewy muscle wrapped around bone. His soldier, cast in iron and covered with a patina of scars. Merlin, he was so in love. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Oh, yes,” Severus answered. “Better than I expected, seeing as I tore out my soul and owled it to the Daily Prophet yesterday.” He shifted to press his thigh more firmly against Harry’s very obvious erection. “And how are _you_ feeling?”

Harry’s lips parted. “Like… you’re touching me with your naked skin… and I like it.”

“I do that, don’t I?” Severus asked, and pressed closer until Harry could feel that he was getting hard, too. “I can be so forward.” 

He sounded bewilderingly playful, and Harry did not know what to make of it. Maybe he wasn’t all the way awake? 

“You’re not…?” he began. “I didn’t expect you to want - I mean. I thought you might be… I dunno. Angry.”

“With you?” Severus kissed the side of Harry’s neck. “Never.” He inhaled, and then let his breath back out with a low hum. “Have I told you lately that you smell like _amortentia?”_

“You’ve never - never told me that,” Harry answered breathlessly as Severus’ fingers in his hair tightened, coaxing his head to the side to bare more of his throat.

“Well, _amortentia_ smells like you, anyway,” Severus continued. “Just as you smell now.” He inhaled again. “Mm. Add in a bit of the fragrance of a garden after the rain, a bit of sandalwood… red wine… there you have my whole heart.”

“I didn’t know that,” Harry said, his toes curling into the sheets with the effort of not rubbing up against Severus’ thigh. _“Amortentia_ smells like me?”

“Of course it does,” Severus answered. “I walked through a cloud of its fumes while we were separated and my heart nearly stopped. Have you ever smelled it? I know Horace likes to use it in his _NEWT_ rubric. Adds drama.”

“I have…” Harry tried to remember the moment. That first fateful day of Potions. _Felix Felicis, Veritaserum, Polyjuice,_ and _Amortentia,_ all bubbling in cauldrons at the front of the class, and Harry’s first glimpse into the genius of the Half-Blood Prince. The Half-Blood Prince, who’d charmed and impressed him, and made him laugh, and kept him company during his sleepless nights, and was, at the present moment, naked in bed with him. What was he supposed to be remembering? Oh, right. Love potion. “Um… I guess I remember… treacle… and a woody sort of smell, like a broom, or a stirring rod. And flowers, too, I think. Or herbs. Maybe… lavender?” A pair of thoughts clicked together in his mind for the first time, right then. Probably because Severus’ hair was practically in his face. “Oh…” he said slowly. “Your shampoo?”

“Ask me what _Amortentia_ smelled like to me before I ever met you.”

“What did amortentia smell like before you ever met me?” Harry asked, and Severus shifted to lay more fully over him.

“Just the same,” he murmured. “Magic is tricky that way.”

“Is that really tr-” Severus kissed him before he could finish the question.

“Do I lie?” he asked against Harry’s mouth. “Do I lie to you?”

“No,” Harry breathed back, and there was no more talking. 

Severus kissed him again, and made love to him, peeling him apart with leisurely, thorough sweetness until Harry was twisting impatiently under his hands. Until he was panting, and clinging, and hot to the touch. And Severus could feel in the clutch of his fingers that Harry really _had_ expected anger, if not rage. That Harry had expected punishment, or coldness, or withdrawal. But Severus was not angry. He could find no fury or resentment in his heart at all for what Harry had asked him to do, and he did his best to show that to him in the way that Harry liked to be shown. He sucked a mark back onto his neck where he’d vanished one for Rita’s sake, and then one under his jaw, and one on his collarbone - darkening it with his teeth - writing his devotion in burst capillaries where strangers and acquaintances might see, and imagining the day that Harry would wear that love on his finger, as well as his skin. 

Gold or platinum, he wondered, as Harry’s heels dug into his back, wordlessly begging him to move faster, and he pinned Harry to the bed, wondering if he would accept a precious stone, or if he’d shy away. Wondering, as Harry’s nails raked down his shoulder blades, where he might go to find one of good quality, and who he might ask to help him choose something suitable for someone so priceless. Someone so incredibly compassionate, so forgiving, so _loyal._ For Severus himself was not well-versed in the language of jewelry, and had, in fact, long considered such things superfluous and worthy only of scorn. But he was not feeling particularly that way now. He was feeling a bit more like wasting an ungodly amount of money on a gesture, and as Harry cried out underneath him, his legs quaking with the pleasure only Severus had ever given him, he imagined giving Harry every fine thing on earth. Making him _drip_ with sweat and precious metals alike - laying him out like a sacrifice on a bed of rare furs - tying his hands with braided silk and satin - dressing him in finery - in bruises - in welts and scratches and ropeburn and _soaking_ him in adrenaline and fragrant water - 

Harry’s back arched, his hands tangling into Severus’ hair, dragging his head down, and Severus knew just what he wanted, and gave it to him. 

He sank in his teeth.

In the shower, Severus scrubbed himself with a washcloth until he turned quite pink, and asked Harry to do his back, and they lathered each other's hair, and Severus did not try to hide his handprint, but instead let the water run and run over it to slough off the top layer of dead skin. Harry made a face, as Severus knew he would, but he did not try to vanish it, or otherwise complain. He just insisted on applying a fresh bandage to protect Severus’ sleeve, which Severus allowed, telling him that it would likely be healed enough to go on display by the start of the trials. At least based on the loathsome itching.

“Will you put it on display?” Harry asked, tugging a shirt over his head.

“Likely not,” Severus answered, and hooked a finger into Harry’s collar as soon as his head popped through, pulling him into a kiss. “I’m surprised Miss Rita didn’t demand a photo of it to go along with my riveting life story.”

“I think she was overwhelmed with information,” Harry laughed, and then hummed a little as Severus took hold of his jaw, tilting his head to press a kiss to the highest bruise, too. “Mm. What’s a little missing Dark Mark compared to all that other stuff? She probably stayed up all night thinking of all the questions she should have asked. Or crying about the Elder Wand. Bet the whole bloody country will cry about that.” He chuckled lightly, but then stopped, and looked up at him, his expression serious. “You really aren’t upset?” he asked. “I kind of… strong-armed you.” 

“No I am not,” Severus answered, and it was true. He felt good, really. Light. Like there had been a foreign object lodged in his heart, and it had finally been excised along with its scar tissue. A tumor he’d thought inoperable, cut out and cast away. All of his many selves finally, finally lined up together. Like a nesting doll. 

He hadn't even though it was possible. 

“And when have you ever _strong-armed_ me?”

Harry’s eyes crinkled. “I mean… a couple of times,” he said. “Thanks for not telling Rita about how much trouble we got into at Hogwarts, by the way.”

“I’m not a _moron,_ Potter,” Severus scoffed. “I do have to face your extremely large and protective surrogate family, don’t I? I can hardly fight off all of them.”

“Bet Mrs. Weasley is going to cry all over you when that story comes out.”

“Oh, what fun,” Severus answered coolly. “I do so love _weeping._ It’s such an improvement over being assaulted. Now, speaking of the Weasleys, shall we have breakfast? I’d like to get some food into you while you’re still in a post-orgasmic haze.”

“I mean… I feel fine,” Harry answered. “I feel pretty good, actually.”

“I know you do. Which is why you should eat now.” 

Harry’s mouth twisted into a crooked grin, and he knocked his head gently into Severus’ chest. “Before my inevitable _meltdown,_ you mean?” 

His tone was flippant, and Severus followed his lead and kept it light, though that was, of course, exactly what he meant. Now that his own moment of weakness had passed, it was probably Harry’s turn. After all, Harry hadn’t been exposed to many crowds, and this was, as far as Severus was aware, the first war-related event to be withstood. It wasn’t going to be easy on either of them. But the interview hadn’t been easy either, and as long as they were together, they would get through it. 

“Meltdowns require fuel,” Severus said, curling one hand around the back of Harry’s neck to keep him in place. “Maybe Kreacher will make you special pre-crisis pancakes.”

Kreacher did not just make pancakes. He’d made a _feast -_ an extravagant spread of poached eggs, sausages, pancakes, fruit compote, toast, hot cereal _and_ tiny muffins spotted with blueberries, and upon entering the kitchen, Severus became immediately suspicious that Kreacher had heard him weeping. That Kreacher, perhaps, stress-cooked. But he supposed it didn’t matter. House-Elves always knew far more than they let on. God knew what the Hogwarts elves had thought during Harry’s sixth year. Dobby had brought Harry’s clothes to the Dungeons more than once, after all. He supposed Dobby had kept Harry’s secrets well. All of them, right to the grave. That, or the House-Elves just hadn’t thought much of a student spending the night in his rooms under such circumstances that he needed _clothes._

That school was mad.

Snakes in the walls, and three-headed dogs, and a secret room filled with rebels and chamber-pots and Horcruxes. And Harry Potter, in his bed. 

Mad.

“Morning,” Harry said brightly, perching on the stool Severus pulled out for him. Draco and Narcissa had beaten them to breakfast, and were sitting at the kitchen island entrenched in an argument about thread-counts. “What are we fighting about? Robes, or sheets?”

“Oh, good morning Mr. Potter,” Narcissa answered drolly. “Draco is trying to convince me that I need an entire wardrobe. Which I do not. Tea?”

“Mother,” Draco said, exasperated, waving his paper dragon away from his plate and handing it a little muffin. “Who knows the state of the Manor? Why you insist on behaving like a martyr-”

“I am insisting on behaving like a _houseguest,_ darling,” Narcissa interjected, pouring two mugs and passing them over while the dragon started digging at it’s pastry like the blueberries might be hiding a very tiny knight. “Which I’ll remind you, we both are. I’ll hardly drain Mr. Potter’s vault just to recreate my collection of custom gowns.”

“I didn’t say to _drain his vault,”_ Draco shot back. “But you need _shoes.”_

“I have shoes.”

Draco just scoffed, and launched into a lecture on seasonal footwear needs, and Harry laughed at him, holding his tea in both hands while Severus set himself to filling a plate. He dished out quite a lot, hoping Harry might eat quite a lot, and Harry obliged him, immediately tucking into his sugar-coated nonsense while Draco and Narcissa continued to chatter, and Draco’s familiar continued making a mess.

“I demand ten thousand Galleons for my _brooch budget,”_ Narcissa was saying, tossing her hair glamorously. “Monthly, Mr. Potter. I will not be dissuaded. This is the price of my enchanting company, and not a Sickle less.”

 _“Mum,_ I’m trying to be serious! You don’t have anything! Even if we get exonerated-”

“I am being serious. That is what I require. A hundred and twenty thousand Galleons in brooches a year. Fifty thousand in earrings. Yes, and you’re right Draco. Shoes. I need two pairs of dragon-hide stiletto heels per day. No. _Three.”_

 _“Mother!_ Not in front of my dragon!”

“It can’t understand english, darling, don’t be ridiculous. And it’s not made of dragon-hide, anyway. Is it, Mr. Potter? No, of course not. Now, what was I saying? Oh, that’s right. Fur-trimmed dressing gowns. White for mondays, tawny for tuesdays, black for wednesdays…”

Severus gazed unseeingly at Harry pouring an ungodly amount of syrup onto his pancakes.

Narcissa knew about jewelry, didn’t she? Of course she did. She’d had a walk-in safe for her collection back in the day. He’d seen it, and had tolerated her explanations of where each piece had come from. _This_ one and _this_ one gifts from her father for her coming of age, _this_ one a gift from Lucius for her courting, _this_ one an apology from Lucius for some infraction or other, still more inherited, and purchased, and showered on her from all directions. The amassed, frivolous wealth had annoyed him, reminding him of his mother’s plain gold band, the match to the one his father wore, he was sure, just to leave blacker bruises. 

Narcissa Malfoy was a collector. A connoisseur of finery. She probably knew dozens of jewelers of all stripes, not to mention all the symbolic rubbish one was supposed to keep in mind in these matters. _She_ would know where to find a craftsman that wouldn’t spit in his face, and _she_ could tell him wh- 

Someone smacked him on the arm, and he jumped and looked up to see that it was Narcissa herself. 

“What?” he demanded, annoyed.

“He’s trying to talk to you, Severus,” Narcissa answered. “Merlin, try to pay attention to your own _soulmate._ I mean, he’s very handsome and talented, but it’s rude to just _stare_ that way.”

“Oh.” Apparently he’d been rather visibly lost in thought. “What were you saying, love?”

“Pff,” Draco said, pulled the paper tin-liner off of a second muffin and offered it to his dragon with an air of scientific experimentation. _“Handsome_ and _talented,”_ he muttered. 

“I was just asking if I could borrow one of your robes,” Harry repeated, embarrassed. “I thought it might be easier than transfiguring one of mine to be… you know. Formal.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I dunno what’s the usual thing to wear. Black, right?” 

***

Severus’ dress robes actually fit Harry quite well after a bit of magical manipulation, and once they were on, Harry rustled in his little drawstring bag until he found the gold watch Mrs. Weasley had presented him on his seventeenth birthday, and put that on, too. It seemed the thing to do - it had belonged to her brother - and it fit nicely above his bracelet on his left wrist, peeking out just a bit from his sleeve. He liked how it looked, and fully dressed, he went into the bathroom to see the full effect, smoothing his hands down his sides and turning to profile. 

Severus’ robes were uncomfortable, the cut far more severe than anything he would have chosen for himself, but the collar was high, and that seemed appropriate. It wouldn’t be terribly polite to flaunt a few fresh suck-marks at a funeral, would it? And he didn’t particularly want to vanish them, either. He rather wished he had more, really. Maybe some stripes on his back. From the belt, or the switch. Something that would hurt when he moved, just a little bit. To keep him focused. For though he might have been feeling confident fresh out of the shower, he wasn’t anymore. He was starting to feel pretty scared, actually. Which was silly. 

He undid the top two buttons and tugged the starched fabric aside to look at Severus’ teeth marks, and then pressed the center with his fingertip, lighting up the pain.

He should have asked for more, but there wasn’t time for that now. It was almost quarter-til, and they had to go. But maybe he could have some when they came back. That sounded perfect, actually. Just strip down, and put his hands on the wall, and count, and then sleep, and then wake up tomorrow with this, at least, behind him. 

“What do you think?” he asked as Severus appeared in the doorway, dressed in black from head to foot and looking just as forbidding as always. _He_ could probably go to a funeral every single day and no one would know the difference. 

“I think I quite like this mirror you’ve made,” Severus answered, moving to stand behind him and skating his palms down Harry’s arms. “Such potential.” 

“No, not that,” Harry said, not feeling flirtatious in the slightest. “I meant… the robes. Are they…” He turned the other way, picking at one of the buttons. Severus always wore the maximum possible amount of _buttons._ Was four thousand buttons too many buttons? Or was that a suitable amount for a formal occasion? Harry’d only been to one funeral, and he’d worn his school robes for that, and he’d spent it in a weird sort of fugue state anyway. And then there was Dobby… did that count? He’d been all sweaty and covered with dirt and blood. What about Moody’s eye? Was that a funeral? Out in the woods. “Are they ok? Or should I-”

“They’re fine,” Severus interjected, resting his hands on Harry’s shoulders before moving to refasten his collar. “There. You look perfectly appropriate, and it’s only the Weasleys. They’re your family, and no one is going to be judging your robes. If anything, they will be happy to see you, and I’m sure the extended family will be fascinated and appalled by the fact you are with me, and not at all predisposed to evaluate your sartorial choices.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, and shrugged minutely. “Yeah. ‘Course not.” He rubbed at his eyes under his glasses, pressing hard enough for lights to dance across his vision. None of that sounded good at all. “Just the Weasleys.” Actually, it sounded like a nightmare. But he’d hardly act the coward, now. All of the terror was over. This was supposed to be the easy part, wasn’t it? Peacetime. 

Severus pulled his hands away from his face, and turned him around. “Shall I forbid you to go?” he asked. “I could, you know. And I’m perfectly happy to take the blame. Let everyone think I’m keeping you captive in my _lair_ just like Miss Rita. Poor, helpless Potter, trussed up in a dungeon somewhere by his despicable, loathsome, thirty-eight-year-old warden.” He raised his eyebrows. “What are a few dozen more Howlers to me, the almighty king of Howlers?” Harry knew he was trying to be funny, but it didn’t seem very funny at all right then, and he turned his face away, wanting very badly to say yes. 

_Forbid me._

“No,” he said. “I have to go.” He chuckled unhappily. “I’m already all dressed up, and we’re trying to _stop_ you from getting Howlers, anyway.” 

“Harry.” Severus clasped his chin between thumb and forefinger and turned his head back, dropping all pretense at humor. “There is no more _‘have to,’_ for you,” he said. “You don’t _have to_ do anything at all, ever again. You have already given enough for a hundred lifetimes, and every Wizard in Britain knows it. We do not have to go to this service. We might send our regrets with a bouquet, or a dozen, or visit another day. Pay our respects separately, hm?” He tipped Harry’s chin up until his eyes lifted, too. “No one will begrudge you a bit of privacy, least of all the Weasleys.”

Harry shook his head. “No,” he said again. “I promised Ron, and -” he stopped, and looked at the floor. “I promised.”

“I had a feeling you might say that.” Severus’ fingers curled more insistently around his jaw. Not demanding eye contact, or anything else, but just reminding him that he was there. “So allow me to tell you how it will go. We will appear on time at the specified address. We will locate your friends, and stand with them to offer our condolences. We will shake many hands, possibly too many, and we will go to the reception, and tolerate conversation and crudités, and then we will make our excuses, and I will bring you back here, and we’ll take a bath. Alright?”

Harry swallowed, wishing he could just fast forward to the bath. Or retreat backwards in time to the bed. Back to the solid crush of Severus’ body on top of him, his ribcage expanding and contracting with each breath, bearing him down into the mattress. Keeping him still. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I can do that.”

“I know that you can,” Severus answered, and kissed his forehead. “And I know that you will. You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you? Two hours at most. Child’s play.”

***

They bade their goodbyes to the Malfoys and appeared on the outskirts of a charming, weathered chapel built of stone, and it immediately became apparent that ‘just’ the Weasleys did not mean anything much. There were a _lot_ of Weasleys, which Severus supposed he should have foreseen, and there were others, besides. He saw many members of the Order, and quite a few assorted classmates, along with some other Hogwarts faculty. It was, in fact, quite a crowd, and for a moment, he was sure that Harry would bolt. But Harry did not bolt, nor did he exhibit a freeze response. He just blinked, and took Severus’ hand. He seemed calm, and though Severus did not particularly like that, he also would not challenge it. Let him pretend serenity for as long as he could, or whatever it was that would get him through these next few hours.

Leading Harry by the hand right into the thick of it, he ignored the ripple of whispers that followed them, and nodded back at those that nodded at him, and just kept moving until he located Hermione Granger’s hair. Ron was there beside her, clutching her hand, his face about the color and dampness of a cave-dwelling salamander, and just beyond him were a dozen or so more red-haired people, and beyond them, a handsome mahogany casket covered in orange carnations. 

“Hullo,” Ron said numbly, catching sight of them. 

“Hey,” Harry answered softly, and Ron let go of Hermione’s hand to accept his embrace. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, alright I suppose,” Ron said with a weak little chuckle. “You know.”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, and hugged Hermione, too. “Hey, Hermione.”

“Hey, Harry,” she said, and then offered her hand to Severus to shake. “Hi again, Professor. McGonagall’s here, did you see?”

“I did,” Severus answered. 

“Hagrid too,” Ron added. “And Flitwick and Hooch. I didn’t expect so many people. Oh. It’s starting.”

They turned their attention to the center of the assembled crowd to see a small and tufty-haired Wizard standing on a platform and holding out his hands, and within moments, the subdued conversation stilled to silence. He had gravitas, that Wizard, despite his small stature, and Severus returned his hand to Harry’s, and gave him a gentle squeeze. 

  
  



	6. Lost Boy

“Welcome,” the Wizard began in a gentle, lilting voice. “My name is Patrick Fernsby Thornton, and I have had the great privilege to know the Weasley family for many years. Through joy and union, grief and loss, through life, and through death, I have known them. And today it is my great honor to lead you in celebrating the extraordinary life of a beloved young man.”

Standing there listening to the celebrant speak, Severus could feel the heat draining from Harry’s fingers like sand through an hourglass, and he stroked his thumb over his knuckles in slow, steady circles, wondering if this was a mistake. If he really _should_ have forbidden him to come, or somehow prepared him more fully, or otherwise deadened the sting. Everything was just so fresh. Each wound, each loss, each failure, still so incredibly sharp. Harry might still have been smelling of chordite and blood for all the time that had passed, and they’d been far too busy to properly absorb the magnitude of all that had happened. Defending their right to stay together, sprinting around the Ministry, negotiating with and intimidating law enforcement, getting the Malfoys to safety, and tracking down Rita Skeeter. Not much time to process the reality of Fred Weasley’s death, or any of the others. Not much time to discuss the fact that Harry had saved countless lives, even if it had not been possible to save everyone.

Had Severus ever said that to him? 

That it hadn’t been possible to save everyone?

He wasn’t sure, and abruptly he could not recall ever speaking to Harry of any of the fallen at all. Fred Weasley was dead. It was an incontrovertible fact writ large in the grave gouged into the earth before them, and surely they had known it. Harry might have even seen it happen. But had they _spoken_ of it? 

He glanced sideways at Harry’s face, his cheeks bloodless and eyes fixed, and in the back of his mind there came the familiar whisper:

_Mistake._

Harry did not absorb very much of the service at all. He got some bits of it, but it was kind of like hearing snatches of conversation from another room, or through a wireless tuned to a weak station. Sentence fragments, and general impressions, and that was all. The celebrant said some things like nobility of spirit, and courage, and kindness. He spoke of laughter and good cheer so strong that it reached the farthest corners of the Wizarding World. A boy taken too young. A family bereft, that sort of thing. He spoke of war, and sacrifice, and a world forever changed, and of the importance of living the way the departed would want his loved ones to live, and staring straight ahead, Harry saw George fall to his knees in the grass out of the corner of his eye, and then Angelina Johnson crouch down beside him. Against his will he found his gaze pulled to them, and he watched her stroke his shock of ginger hair, whispering, tears coursing down her cheeks. And then she carded George’s hair back from the dark hole on the side of his head where his ear used to be, and Harry started to feel a little bit dizzy. 

George’s ear… he’d forgotten. He’d forgotten what escaping the Dursley’s had cost, that summer. How could he have forgotten? George’s ear. And Moody, and Hedwig. All lost, just to get Harry out of Privet Drive and to safety. Because he was the Chosen One, and people died for him. People died for him, and were tortured and maimed for him, because he was so important. He was just so important, wasn’t he? The Chosen One, who could apparate from anywhere, to anywhere. Who could block the killing curse, and disarm a dozen Wizards with a gesture, and send people straight through space, and yet had faffed about for years, blissfully unaware of his own power while the people around him dropped like flies. 

He could have just… disappeared from Little Whinging, and popped into existence at the Burrow, with no need for decoys. George wouldn’t have been hit with _Sectumsempra_ at all. Severus wouldn’t have been _crucio’d_ for losing him, Moody would still be alive, and Hagrid wouldn’t have fallen out of the sky onto his face. 

And what about Dobby? Buried in gifted clothes, because Harry hadn’t been clever enough to realize that he - he could just … leave. Take all the prisoners, and Ron and Hermione, and flatten the Manor, and leave. He might have even been able to take Draco, too. Get him away from those _people._ And before that, even. Dumbledore, begging for water, and then for death, when Harry could have just violated the wards of that awful place and turned the locket to ash. And he could have. If he’d been stronger. Smarter. 

And Sirius. Even without his special magic, Harry could easily have prevented that. If he’d been just a little better. A little more obedient. 

If he’d tried harder, even just a little bit… 

He could have prevented everything. 

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Severus whispered, his breath feather-light against Harry’s cheek as he leaned over. “No, alright? _No.”_

Harry just nodded, his head filled with the horrific howling he’d heard coming out of the field hospital during his final walk to the woods. The screaming, and weeping, and all the bodies. So many bodies, but he’d been too busy to stop, and too fragile to look. He had no idea how many had died, or who they’d been, or where they were now. Had they already been buried, or were their funerals still to come? 

How would he even know? 

_“Harry.”_

He thought of the crate of letters at Number Twelve, and the ones he’d left at Hogwarts, and the ones that were probably still getting delivered every day. How many invitations were in there? How many people was he disappointing by withdrawing to Grimmauld Place? Disappointing _again._ Hiding in Severus’ arms, while all these people were suffering because of his stupid mistakes. 

Selfish. It was so _selfish._

_“Harry,”_ Severus repeated, his voice barely audible, and pressed his trigger point for him. _“You’re spiraling. I can feel it. Do I need to take you away?”_

Harry swallowed, and shook his head, _no._

He couldn’t just leave. He wouldn’t. He owed Fred that much. Fred, who’d come to the castle that night to fight for him, and was now in a box covered with orange flowers. And he owed Ron, too. Ron had almost died so many times to stand by his side, and in all kinds of terrible ways. Spiders and giant chess and Deatheaters and starvation and exposure and poison. And Mr. Weasley, on the floor of the Ministry. Bill, with his face ripped off and his blood contaminated forever. Ginny, her soul infected by a shard of pure evil because she had the misfortune to be his best friend’s sister. The whole family, shredded and torn open, because he’d touched their lives. Even Percy, who’d disowned his own parents because they believed _Harry._

The least he could do was make it to the end of a single funeral, after all that. After all the chaos he’d caused. It was the absolute minimum, and he could do it. He could. He just had to hold his magic in, and stand there. Show that he cared about them, and could share their pain. That he was strong enough to shoulder it with them. Strong the way they were strong, and worthy of all they’d done for him. And then when it was over, Severus could take care of him. Severus could give him what he deserved, and what he needed. Severus always knew what he needed. He just had to get through this part, first. Hold down his magic - keep it small - and stand still. That was all. 

Easy.

Child’s play, like Severus said.

Severus did not so much as take his eyes off of Harry’s profile as the celebrant relinquished his position at the front of the crowd to Minerva, who proceeded to deliver a very moving speech about what a gift it had been to teach a student so bright, and the many ways that Fred Weasley had embodied the greatest traits of her house, and how she’d never given so much detention in her career as to Fred and George, and how it had all been extraordinarily deserved, and how the pair of them had breathed life into her days in a thousand small ways. Severus just watched Harry as Minerva dabbed at her eyes, and cleared her throat, and read a letter from Molly and Arthur to their lost son, and as the assembled mourners dissolved into weeping, and as the casket was finally lowered into the ground. But Harry did not weep. Harry did not shed a single tear, and Severus pressed his trigger point again, and counted silently to himself, genuinely unnerved. He’d expected tears. Or panic. Or… some kind of expression. Something. Not this placid, mannequin-like stillness.

 _One, two, three, four, five,_ he thought, released the point, and pressed it again. _One, two, three, four, five._

_Mistake. Mistake._

“And now, if you please, join hands,” the celebrant said at last, and someone took Harry’s free hand, but he did not look to see who it was. He just stared at the dark mouth of the grave, like a wound in the earth in the beating sunlight, trying to focus on the simmering sea of his magic. Because his magic was trying to do something. He could feel it, even if he didn’t know what it was. But it was hard to concentrate on drawing in with the light so glaring. Had it been this bright when they’d arrived? Jeez, it was bright. 

“To share a moment of silence in honor of Fred Weasley, who sacrificed himself along with many others, in the hopes of…” 

Into Harry’s mind there came a sudden flash of memory: Mrs. Weasley, in Grimmauld Place, sobbing over a Boggart masquerading as the bodies of her children. He’d heard her distress, and had come into the drawing room to see Ron dead on the floor. And then _crack!_ It had become dead Percy, and then _crack!_ The twins. 

Harry had forgotten that, too, but he remembered it right then, and with a rush of clarity, he understood that he had delivered unto Molly Weasley something so terrible that she had never even conceived of it, not even in her worst nightmares. 

The separation of the twins. 

“...Bringing forth a better world,” the little Wizard continued, and held out his hands. “Bowing your heads…” 

Harry dipped his chin and looked at the grass under his feet, relieved to direct his gaze away from the glaring sky at last as the sounds of grief washed over him in a flood of white noise.

And then the grass under his feet was gone.

And so were his shoes. 

Huh.

He blinked at his bare feet, and then wiggled his toes into the soft, mulchy leaf litter, nonplussed. Had he apparated himself? He didn’t usually do that by accident.

He turned his head to ask Severus what he’d done, but the question died on his lips when he saw that Severus was not there. No one was there, and his hands were empty, and after a moment, he couldn’t quite recall who else had been there, or where ‘there’ had been, or why it might matter. There were just trees around him now, filtering the sunlight into soft patches, and the only sounds were birds and insects and water. No more talking, and no more crying. Just the jungle.

Well, he must have been meditating, that was all. Or else he’d been hit with another killing curse, but that seemed unlikely. Why should someone want to kill him now? The war was over.

He looked up at the smattering of clear blue sky through the verdant canopy above him, and then down at his own body in the dappled shade, and saw that he was not only barefoot, but dressed in jeans and a ratty old t-shirt. And that was good, because those robes he’d been wearing would be way too hot in this climate. He was a little too hot even without them, actually - particularly his palms and the soles of his feet - and after a moment’s consideration, he stripped off his shirt, hung it around his neck, and set about trying to orient himself. He tended to appear in different spots every time he went into his magic, or maybe the landscape changed around him, but he wasn’t particularly concerned. Every place in his magic was good, and right then he mostly just wanted to get his feet wet, so he went in search of the stream he could hear babbling in the distance. 

It was a bit of a walk, as it turned out, and Harry padded through the underbrush towards the sound of trickling water for a good long time, just letting the balmy air wash over him and keeping his eyes peeled for anything interesting. There was always something interesting in his magic. Some rare or beautiful creature, or exotic plant, or extravagant natural formation. And as he really didn’t seem to be in control of what appeared anymore, he was always surprised, and usually delighted. 

Strolling through the glorious, teeming life, he wondered if it might be fun to find some books on the rainforest to help him put names to the things he saw, the way he’d used a book to populate his desert back when Severus first returned to him. There was just so much. The neon green and orange dragonflies, and butterflies so blue they seemed to emit their own light. The huge, spike-leaved plants with stalks of red flowers the size of a man’s arm. The looping vines, and extravagant birds, and glistening, golden frogs. He was pretty sure those last ones were poisonous, but probably not inside his magic, and he wasn’t going to lick one anyway. Even if they did look sort of like Wizard candy. 

Maybe he should ask for that for his birthday. Some books about the rainforest. His magic might be all mixed up. Maybe those frogs were from China, and the butterflies were from Brazil? Might be all wrong. Or maybe sections of his magic were different kinds of forest. That would be cool. He was pretty sure tigers weren’t from the same country as storks, anyway, but then… maybe he wasn’t sure of that. He hadn’t learned much about geography in his muggle school, and none at all at Hogwarts, and, now that he thought about it, he didn’t really know if everything in his magic even existed in the outside world. Once, in the many hours he’d spent in the jungle while he stayed at Bill’s house, he’d seen a little animal high up in one of the trees that looked like a miniature, furry Kreacher, except it had one super skinny, super-extra-long finger. Why would something like that evolve? Didn’t make any sense at all. 

He should ask Severus when he came back out. Severus might already have some books like that in his library, the way he’d had one about the desert. Tropical things were probably even _more_ useful for potions, since so many of them were poisonous, and Severus had always made them brew with all sorts of weird animal parts, too. He probably had a whole stack of books like that.

Pushing his way through a dense cluster of low palms, their serrated tips tickling his bare skin, he finally came out the other side on the sandy bank of a wide, calm river. The surface of the water was glittering in the sun, and wonderfully clear, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more inviting in his life. 

It was perfect.

Crouching down to roll up the legs of his jeans, he paused, wondering if he should just strip off. It was hot, and it wasn’t like anyone could see him inside his magic. What did he care if some great big bird saw his arse? 

As long as Dumbledore didn’t pop out again. 

That idea kind of freaked him out, and he straightened up and squinted into the thick foliage, but there was no one. He didn’t really think that had been the real Dumbledore, anyway. Bastard had basically said it himself, and Harry’s own subconscious had seen him starkers loads of times.

Stepping out of his trousers and underwear, he laid them on the sand along with his shirt, and waded out into the water. It was just as soothing on his feet as he’d hoped it would be, and when he sat down in the shallows, a school of little orange fish with bulbous eyes swirled around his legs. They looked just as impractical and silly as the finger-monkey, and he watched, charmed, as they started bonking into each other and him like they had absolutely no idea where they were going. More like a cartoon of a fish than anything else. 

He chuckled, swishing a finger around until one of them came to investigate, and bonked into his finger, too. That was just why he needed a book. That could not be a real type of fish. 

Goofy little bug-eyed weirdos.

He leaned back on his hands, sinking them into the riverbed, and turned his face up to bask in the sunlight. It was such a beautiful day. In his magic, it always was.

Sitting there submerged in the cool water, Harry did not find it terribly difficult to think of nothing at all, and listening to the gentle sounds around him, he was aware of time passing in only the vaguest sense. He might have even been dozing, in fact, when something startled his eyes back open, and he blinked up at the sky, confused. From behind his closed eyelids, it had looked like the sun sort of… swooped. That was the best way he could think of to describe it. The sun had _swooped_ across the sky like a day in timelapse, leaving a red streak in his vision. But that was not something the sun did, was it? Swooping. Not even in his magic. He must have been asleep.

But he didn’t sleep in his magic. He wasn’t even sure if that was possible, and he waited, tense and watchful, to see if it happened again. And then right in front of his eyes, it did. The sun, like a blinding pendulum in the hand of God, swinging from one horizon to the next. 

“What the fuck-” 

He scrambled backwards out of the water, scattering the little fish and spraying himself with sand, and the sun continued to violate all celestial laws, sweeping across the sky once, twice more, before stalling weirdly in the center. He froze, terrified, but it wasn’t finished. Quite to the contrary, the sun seemed almost to _see him._ Growing suddenly larger, brighter, like a comet in slow motion, like it was going to burn everything - vaporize his sanctuary - kill all the animals - turn them to _cinders-_

It vanished abruptly, leaving his eyes dazzled, and then reappeared in his right eye, and moved his left, the searing locus surrounded by a dark void where moments ago there had been blue sky. But the sky was gone, and so were the sounds. No more birds, and no more water. 

Harry wasn’t even _wet._

He gasped and flinched back, and his hands met blankets instead of pebbles and sand. No river. No riverbank.

“Harry-”

The light went out, and someone was touching him, and Harry couldn’t see who it was, but they were strong. They were _too_ strong, and when he tried to twist away, he succeeded only in getting his face pressed against something warm, and firm. 

“Alright, it’s alright,” said the voice, the arms around him tightening like steel bands. “It’s me. Merlin, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m sorry. It’s me. It’s me.” 

It was the smell that crashed Harry back into reality. Severus’ smell. And that was Severus’ voice, and those were Severus’ hands, and it was Severus’ chest and buttons against his cheek, and that had not been the sun. It must have been a _lumos,_ and it was gone now, and Harry was not in his magic anymore, and he did not know where he was, and this had never happened before. 

_“What are you doing?”_ he wheezed, blinking hard to dispel the blind spots dancing around him. “Jeez.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “My eyes. Jeez.” 

“I’m sorry,” Severus repeated, breathless. “I was - checking your pupillary reflex.”

“My...what?”

“Your pupillary - Nevermind,” Severus answered, and then held him at arm's length. “It was normal. Do you know where you are?”

Harry rubbed at his eyes under his spectacles, and then looked around, disoriented. “Uh…” The voids were slowly clearing from his vision, and in their wake he saw that he was in a crooked little room with peeling wallpaper. There was a wooden dresser with a missing knob in one corner, and a spindly chair, and he realized he knew it. He’d woken up in this bedroom before. “...Burrow?” he asked.

“Yes,” Severus answered, cupping the side of his neck with one cool hand. “That’s just right. Very good. We’re at the Burrow.” 

Harry frowned at him. Severus was talking to him like he was a child, and he definitely hadn’t been at the Burrow when he went under. He’d been at Number Twelve, hadn’t he? He hadn’t been at the Burrow since his seventeenth birthday, and why would he be meditating there, anyway?

“But… wasn’t I…?”

There was a little tapping at the door. “Professor?” came Hermione’s voice. “I have it.”

“Oh, good,” Severus said, looking around. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Hermione appeared, silhouetted in the light from the hallway. “How’s he - oh! _Harry.”_ She practically knocked Severus out of the way in her rush to throw her arms around him. “Merlin, you scared me. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine…” Harry said, his voice muffled in her clothes. Why was everyone smashing his face? Rude. “Hermione- Hey. I’m okay. You don’t have to-”

“The tonic,” Severus interjected, giving her shoulder a little tap. “If you please.”

“Oh - sorry.” She released Harry at once, flustered, and withdrew a little glass bottle from the folds of her robes. “Here.” It was unlabeled, but just the kind Harry’d had forced into his mouth during countless stays in the Hospital Wing, and he looked at it dubiously. 

“Am I sick?”

“Thank you,” Severus said, and pulled the cork. “Drink.” But Harry just squinted at it, and he clarified. “It’s a nerve tonic. I had Minerva send to Hogwarts for it while you were… indisposed. Just a precaution. Go on.”

It tasted really bad, and Harry made a face, coughing back a weird feeling of déjà vu as he choked it down. Had he taken a nerve tonic before? 

_“Blech.”_

“I know,” Severus answered, taking the empty bottle back from him. “Hospital Wing standard. No special Harry additions.” He set it on the bedside table. “It’ll take a moment to go to work. Now, do you know what day it is?”

“What kind of question is that?” Harry asked, rubbing his forehead. “Did I concuss myself or something?” His head didn’t hurt, exactly, but he certainly felt weird. Light and heavy both at once. He hoped the tonic was for that. “It’s Friday, right? Friday?” As he said it, a tiny trickle of memory entered his brain. It _was_ Friday, he was sure… and he was at the Burrow… and Hermione and Severus were both dressed formally, and he was wearing something scratchy. And it was Friday… the eighth of May… eleven am. “We’re… at the funeral, aren’t we? Weren’t we outside?” He tried to remember what he’d been doing _before_ going into his magic. Maybe he did have a concussion. He was like a magnet for those. “What time is it?”

“It’s half-past two,” Hermione answered. “And we were outside. You just… um. Sort of…” she trailed off and looked at Severus. 

“You suffered a stress response, that’s all,” Severus said. “Nothing to worry about.”

_Nothing to worry about._

Well, that sounded like bullshit, didn’t it? Since everyone was hugging him, and he had to take a foul potion. Severus hadn’t made him drink anything for ages. Not since… well, he didn’t remember when, specifically, but it had been a while. Merlin, he must have made a scene. And at Fred’s funeral, too.

He groaned and dropped his face into his hands. 

“Oh, God, did I embarrass myself? I embarrassed myself, didn’t I?”

“No,” Severus answered at once. “Not at all. I don’t think many people noticed anything was amiss.”

Harry did not look up. “What did I do? Faint?”

“No,” Hermione said. “You didn’t fall down, or seize, or anything. You just kind of went blank. Severus said we should bring you somewhere quiet and wait for it to pass. He side-alonged you here.” 

“What do you mean I _‘went blank?’”_ Harry asked.

“Sort of like… sleep walking, I suppose,” Hermione answered, and waved a hand in front of her face. “Not there.”

“What do you remember last?” Severus asked, and Harry pressed his fingers hard into his temples, racking his brains. He remembered the sun, and looking at the grave. And everyone was crying, all around him. Just… crying. 

“That Wizard said to hold hands…” he said slowly. “Someone held my hand. Not just you. And everything got really quiet - or sort of loud, but quiet - and then I was inside my magic. I don’t know how long I was under. I thought maybe I…” He opened his eyes just in time to see Hermione and Severus share a significant look. “What?” 

“You were inside your magic?” Severus asked. 

“I… yeah,” Harry answered. “At least, I think so. I went swimming. Is that… bad?”

“No,” Severus said. “I - no. I just thought… a blackout. Or a dissociative episode. It wouldn’t be the first - But I suppose it would be logical for you to retreat into… I mean.” His brow furrowed. “It wasn’t intentional?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said. “I don’t really remember.” He shook his head. “The point didn’t work. Why didn’t the point work? You pressed it, didn't you?”

“I did,” Severus answered slowly. “Four times. But… I think it did work, in a way. Do you remember what I told you the point was for? When I first taught it to you.”

“Severus,” Harry said, closing his eyes again. “Don’t quiz me.”

“Oh,” Severus answered. “No. Of course not. The point allows you to control your panic response. And you did. You were calm. You just… withdrew.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry scoffed. “I’d hardly call waking up somewhere random _ideal.”_ He made to stand, but Severus laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back down. _“What?”_ He was starting to get annoyed.

“I think you should sit for a while longer,” Severus said.

“Why?” Harry demanded. “I didn’t put _out_ any magic. I’m fine. We should go back downstairs. Everyone’s downstairs, right?” He addressed his last question to Hermione, but she didn’t answer right away, and at her expression, he felt a fresh little squeeze of fear. She was looking at him the way she had when he woke up in the Hospital Wing after being sedated. After… breaking all the windows. “What?” he asked again. “Did I do something?” He looked between them. “I did, didn’t I? What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said quickly. “It was nothing. You made some flowers, that was all. Just some flowers.”

Harry searched her face and turned to Severus. 

“It was rather a quantity of flowers,” Severus allowed. 

“It was sweet,” Hermione continued uncomfortably. “Everyone thought it was like… a gift. Right in the middle of the moment of silence. Really beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“What do you mean ‘a quantity?’” Harry asked, and it was Hermione who answered that, too, though he could see it in Severus’ eyes before she so much as opened her mouth. 

_Too many._

“Sort of… the entire cemetery…” Hermione said. “It really was beautiful. I felt the magic, too. Like a little tingle from Severus’ hand into mine.”

“Yes, so did I,” Severus said. “And it was Kingsley on your other side. Holding your other hand, I mean.”

What Severus felt had been less like a tingle and more like an electric shock, and he and Kingsley had looked up at the same moment, first at Harry between them, and then at each other. Kingsley’s expression had been one of bafflement, but before Severus could so much as begin to formulate a reassurance, there had been a sudden shiver across the grass like a ripple on water, and then the flowers. A thousand purple hyacinths - ten thousand - bursting out of the ground, around the grave, between their feet, all the way to the cobblestone street on one side, and the walls of the chapel on the other, blooming all at once, and placed so thickly together that it was like an old-growth forest in purple miniature. An eruption of sorrow. An explosion of _‘forgive me,’_ straight from Harry’s soul and into the earth. 

Harry hadn’t so much as blinked. Had, in fact, hardly blinked at all after that. He’d just stood there, perfectly still, as the people around him wept. As Molly collapsed into her husband’s arms, hysterical, and as the celebrant tried to recover the thread of his service in the face of such a sudden and extreme magical offering. Harry just stood there, and when they were dismissed, he followed the touch of Severus’ hands like an animated doll. Just following. Docile, obedient, and absolutely empty. Empty, because he’d apparently gone somewhere else.

Whatever he’d felt - whatever thought or emotion had produced those flowers - it had been too much for the point. Too much for his mind to hold. Too much, and so he’d retreated. A last line of defense against emotions so huge they threatened annihilation. Or, at the very least, seemed to threaten that. And Harry, gifted as he was, actually had somewhere to retreat _to._

How many soldiers, and abused children, and terrorized people of all kinds would give anything for a place like that to shelter them? Severus himself would have done just the same if he’d had the magic. A lovely, peaceful place to fill up the hours lost to trauma, instead of just submitting to impenetrable nothing when circumstances were too large for a human heart to hold. A sanctuary, instead of a sudden and irretrievable jump through time, like ink poured over the page of a calendar. Like Severus, kneeling at the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes to take the Mark, surrounded by a ring of masked figures, and then coming to up against a wall in a bedroom in Malfoy Manor with no recollection at all of how he’d gotten there, or what, exactly, had been done to him. 

It had taken him years to recover even scraps of the ceremony from the depths of his own mind, and when he had, he’d rather regretted not just leaving it to the abyss. How much better, if he’d had somewhere to go. 

Somewhere to go _swimming._

He reached out to brush a lock of hair away from Harry’s face. 

At least he’d come back.

“How are you feeling, now?” he asked. “It might be good for you to sleep for a while. I can take you home and put you to bed. Hermione will make our excuses.”

Hermione nodded and smiled wanly, but Harry just looked at his hands. “Who’s downstairs?” he asked again. “Is it everyone?”

“No, not everyone,” she answered. “Just the immediate family, and Angelina, and a few others. Lee, and McGonagall. Most people have already gone home.”

Harry grimaced. “Have I been up here a long time? It only felt like… I dunno. Half an hour?”

“Closer to two and a half, I’m afraid,” Severus answered. “But after the magic you cast, I doubt anyone found that very suspicious.”

“I told Mrs. Weasley that you were sleeping,” Hermione added. “No one’s seen you do magic like that and walk away since the battle. They just think you’re sleeping, and that Severus is keeping an eye on you. She’ll probably try to give you something to eat if you come down. You know how she is.”

Harry scrubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Ok.” He took a deep breath. “Just flowers?”

“Just flowers.”

“Ok,” he repeated. “Ok. I’m fine. I’m ready.”

Hermione looked at Severus over Harry’s bowed head, and Severus looked back at her, seeing his own fear reflected in her eyes. But there was more than fear. There was hope, too, and Severus understood that what he was seeing was her hope that he could fix it. That Severus could make it better, like he had before. That he could spirit Harry away, hide him down in the Dungeons, and return him whole. 

But Hermione did not understand that what Severus had done to Harry back in those days had been half-measures. Stopgaps, to keep him moving forward for the short term. Desperately holding Harry together with twine and prayers, and hoping that he could make it just a little longer. But Severus couldn’t do that _now._ He couldn’t just take away Harry’s agency and force the burden from his shoulders. He couldn’t just hurt or terrify him until he felt endangered enough to finally submit to care, even if that was surely what Harry was going to want the moment they were alone. It wouldn’t work, not forever, and Severus had his eyes fixed on forever, now. Not on a hopeless fantasy of saving Harry at the last moment - of snatching him from death, and proceeding to their happily ever after - but on the reality of the boy in front of him, who’d been painstakingly groomed to believe that everyone on earth was his responsibility.

His priceless, kind, compassionate, loyal Harry, who was, perhaps, not fully prepared to be alive at all. 

Let alone one of the survivors.

  
  



	7. Scars

Molly did try to feed Harry when they came downstairs, plying him with biscuits and sweets and juice and rolls so quickly that it was like she’d been lying in wait, and that all Harry needed was a bit of sugar in his bloodstream and he’d be perfectly fine. It might have been charming if Harry wasn’t so visibly uncomfortable, but as it was, Severus stood watchfully by as Harry sheepishly took a single chocolate shortbread and apologized for falling asleep, and as Molly burst into tears and crushed him into an embrace, and thanked him for the flowers through her sobs. And then Molly kissed his cheek, and hugged him again, and thanked him for everything he’d done for their family, and for the country, and for the world, and all the children, and the muggles, and the magical creatures, and the future. She was absolutely hemorrhaging gratitude and grief, and watching Harry’s stiff body language, Severus was just on the brink of pulling him away from her when, sniffling, she finally let him go. Mr. Weasley came next, offering his hand to Harry to shake, and then hugging him anyway, and saying more of the same. He called Harry his son, and a blessing, and a miracle, and when Harry was released a second time, he retreated backwards against Severus’ chest like he was hoping to be shielded from any more affection.

So, Severus shielded him. 

“Harry is not feeling well,” he said, wrapping one steadying arm around his waist. “I’m afraid we must take our leave.” 

He scanned the room, instinctively looking for expressions of disapproval or disgust, but there were none to be seen. There were swollen, red eyes, and looks of concern, and exhaustion, and in one corner, a bit of laughter between Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson, who were apparently recounting some exploits for George Weasley. George was not laughing, though he did smile weakly and nod when Lee hooked an arm around his shoulders. And that was sporting of him, really. Severus couldn’t even imagine what he was going through.

“He’s exhausted himself,” Severus continued. “He’s cast too much…” He trailed off, losing the thread of his excuse as something on Lee Jordan’s hand caught his eye. It was… a scar, raised and thrown into relief by the afternoon sunlight, and though Severus couldn’t quite read the words from that distance, there were, indeed, words. 

Carved into his hand.

“... Wandless magic,” he finally finished. 

“Oh, of course,” Molly said in a watery voice. “It was so lovely, Harry. And so unexpected. I know F-fred would have just - would - would - have-”

“Loved it,” Arthur finished for her, and took her elbow. “Come on, Molly dear. Let's have a brandy. I think Minerva is in the kitchen pouring one just now. Harry will come back another day when he feels better. Won’t you, Harry? I know your birthday is coming up.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, shifting awkwardly. “Pretty soon.” 

“Eighteen,” Arthur said solemnly, and then gave Severus a small nod. “Are you well to apparate? I think the floo might still be connected. I’ve the powder somewhere.”

“No, that’s quite alright, Arthur,” Severus answered. “I’m afraid Harry doesn’t care much for the floo.” 

“No, no,” Arthur said absently. “Of course not. Come on now, Molly. Come on.”

He led her away, and as the sounds of fresh tears drifted out of the kitchen, Severus began charting a course to the front door. It was a bit like an obstacle course, as everyone else seemed just as keen to speak to Harry, and ask how he was feeling, and shake his hand as Molly and Arthur had been. But no one else tried to hug him, which was a small mercy. Severus supposed that was partly his own doing, hovering as he was. Most of the people lingering now were his old students, and many of them did not seem quite sure what to make of him. Lee, in particular, seemed warier than the others, and while Harry was speaking to Charlie during the final layer of goodbyes, Severus quite cornered him. 

“Mr. Jordan,” he said, and offered his hand. Lee just looked down at it, uncomfortable and suspicious, which was appropriate, as Severus did, in fact, have an ulterior motive.

“Professor Snape…Hullo…” Lee answered, glancing cornerwise at Harry before lowering his voice to a whisper. “Did you ever… listen to my program on the wireless? Because if you did… I - I… didn’t know you were… y’know. A spy. I thought you were really a Deatheater. Otherwise I wouldn’t have… said all that stuff.”

“Thus is the nature of spying,” Severus answered lightly, not dropping his hand even when social mores might have suggested he give up. “I assure you, I am not particularly sensitive about my hair, and I harbor no ill-will. You and your grandfather fought well. And his letter to the Prophet, I did see.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lee said, and finally accepted his handshake. “He’s eccentric, but family. A bit of an oddball, you know.” He smiled uncertainly. “But brilliant with a sword.” 

“And a pen, as far as I could tell,” Severus answered, and then at the last moment, tightened his grip, and turned Lee’s hand.

_I must not mock Ministry officials._

Severus looked back up and met his eyes. “Interesting scar,” he said. “I’d like to see how you received it. Might you allow that?”

“What?” Lee answered, startled. “Why?”

“Oh, I’ve a bit of a project, that’s all. Someone very close to me has a similar one. _‘I must not tell lies.’”_ He could see Harry out of the corner of his eye, nodding at Charlie and pocketing a white envelope. “Torturing school children is illegal, you see. Not terribly becoming of a _Ministry Official._ Address?”

“Uh - Eighteen Wilmot Drive,” Lee said. “Just in town.” Severus inclined his head, and released him.

“Very good. I’ll send you an owl. Give my regards to your grandfather, will you?”

“Yeah, ok. I will.”

***

“What was that about?” Angelina asked as the door closed behind Harry and Snape.

“Dunno,” Lee said, and flexed his hand. “But I wouldn’t want to be Umbridge.” 

“Well, who would?” Angelina asked. “She looks like a frog.”

“Yeah,” Lee said. “Hey, didn’t you get that fucked up quill detention, too?”

“Just once,” Angelina answered. “No scar. Had me write _‘I must not attend secret meetings.’_ Terry and Michael, too.”

“Hannah has a scar,” George said softly. “I’ve seen it.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it too,” Lee answered. _“‘I must not spread fear.’_ It’s really bad. Worse than mine.” He looked around at the others. “Is there anyone else? Anyone else she cut?”

***

Draco was busy filling out an order form for _Aguillard Couturier_ with his dragon when Harry and Severus soundlessly reappeared in the parlor, and he didn’t even notice until a letter slapped down beside his left hand. And then he didn’t _notice_ so much as _startle._

“Harry!” he yelped before he could manage to hold it in. Merlin, he was always so fucking _startled._ He should really work on that. It certainly didn’t become a Slytherin to be coming out of their skin for _any_ Gryffindor. Not the Chosen One, and not… anyone else. His _dragon_ wasn’t startled, anyway. His dragon was sleeping on an extra piece of parchment by his elbow with one leg stretched awkwardly out behind it. Dragons slept a lot, apparently. Like house cats. “How - um. How was it?”

“Fine,” Harry answered shortly, sliding the envelope a bit closer. “Charlie asked me to give this to you.” 

“Charlie?” Draco looked down at his own name inscribed on the front, startled again. Why should Charlie Weasley be writing to him? He’d only just visited, and Draco didn’t think he’d made a very good impression at all. And now a letter? Why?

“Dunno,” Harry said, and Draco realized he’d spoken that last bit out loud. And then he realized that Harry didn’t sound particularly like the service had been ‘fine.’ Quite to the contrary, Harry sounded rather… agitated. Like he had somewhere to be, and was very, very late. “He just gave it to me and asked me to pass it along.”

“Oh,” Draco said. “Well, thank you.” He hesitated, his eyes flicking momentarily to Severus standing a little ways behind him. “Are you… feeling alright?” He fixed his eyes back on Harry, and so saw Severus’ minute shake of the head in the utmost periphery of his vision.

 _Stop._

“Yeah, I’m ok,” Harry answered. “I just did some magic by accident. It happens sometimes if I get… emotional. It makes me tired, after. Like burning the floor at the Ministry. Takes it right out of me.” 

Draco didn’t think he seemed tired at all, and he didn’t think Harry had been tired after the scene at the Ministry, either, but Severus had made a _no_ face, so Draco let it lie. 

“Well,” he said. “I wanted to ask you, before you take a nap or… rest. Um. Is this too much?” He turned the order form around for Harry to read. He and his mother had finally reached a compromise over lunch, and it contained five sets of tailored ladies’ robes, plus underclothes, two pairs of shoes, and a coat. It was a little over four hundred Galleons, but Harry didn’t even really look at the numbers.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Order whatever you want.”

“It’s not for me,” Draco answered, searching Harry’s eyes. Merlin, he wanted to ask again. _‘I’m ok,’_ was obviously a lie. But making sure Harry was happy was Snape’s job, wasn’t it? The way Harry’s job was, apparently, to make Snape stop crying. _Draco’s_ job was to mind his own fucking business, and ignore anything he happened to hear through his own abject misfortune. “I asked Kreacher to send for an owl, too. For post. Is that alright? I’m not really sure how much they cost. I’ve - um - never bought one for myself before.” 

“It’s fine,” Harry repeated. “You’re not a prisoner, Draco. Do you whatever you want.” He looked over his shoulder at Severus standing behind him. “Can we lie down for a while?” he asked. “I really am tired.”

“As you like,” Severus answered, and though he met Draco’s gaze for a mere fraction of a second, that tiny sliver of time was more than enough for Draco to understand that he was absolutely correct on all counts. Harry was not ‘fine,’ and nothing at all was ‘fine,’ and it was not any of his fucking business, and he should probably stay downstairs for a while. Forever, maybe. Just stay forever in the parlor, and never ever go upstairs ever again. 

“I’ll ask Kreacher for receipts, shall I?” he asked, only barely able to keep a tremor of anxiety out of his voice. 

“No, that’s alright.” Harry took Severus’ offered hand, and really, Draco liked it a lot better when Harry got hoisted, blushing, into Severus’ arms. This was… different. “Just order what you need. A post owl is a good idea. Send for the Prophet too, will you?”

“Sure,” Draco answered. “I will.”

Severus led Harry upstairs, and Draco sat for a long moment, perfectly still, looking at the landing, telling himself that he did not want to know. He did not want to know what _lie down_ meant, or what had happened to make Harry vibrate with such tension. Harry’s emotional state was not his responsibility, and he just wanted to read his letter. Yes, that was all. He had a letter from Charlie Weasley, and that was odd, wasn’t it? A letter.

He tore open the envelope, and at the sound of ripping paper, his dragon perked up and swished its tail.

> _Dear Draco,_
> 
> _I wanted to apologize for my behavior at Headquarters. It was inappropriate of me to appear unannounced, and usually I’m not such a doofus in any case (at least I hope not). To be perfectly frank, I was a little intimidated, and I took some bad advice. But I did mean what I said about taking you out, if the fancy ever strikes. But if it doesn’t, that’s okay, too. Either way, I’d like to get to know you. All I really know about you is that you play seeker, and that your mum tolerates red wine better than you do, and that my little brother didn’t like you before, but he does now, because you saved Hermione’s life. So I was wondering, what sorts of sweets do you like? If you do like sweets, that is. I’m partial to salmiak, myself, though I understand that is weird and offensive._
> 
> _No obligation to write back. I just thought I might give myself a chance to talk to you without being so nervous I swallow my own boot. And without my big brother trying to get me to flex at you._
> 
> _\- Charlie_

Draco read it twice, so frankly baffled that all thoughts of Harry Potter were momentarily driven out of his head. 

Salmiak was disgusting. 

“Well,” he said after a moment. “We got a letter from a dragon expert. Maybe I can find out if you’re a girl or a boy, and give you a name.” His dragon withdrew its head from inside the empty envelope and exhaled a sprinkle of shreds at him, and Draco waved his wand to conjure a fresh scroll. “Kreacher?” he said. 

“Yes, Master Malfoy?” 

“Harry said go ahead and send for an owl.”

“Very good, Master Malfoy. Does Master have a preference for breed?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Draco answered, dipping his quill, but then something occurred to him. Another petty, childish thing that used to drive him wild with jealousy, back before the world imploded. “Wait.” He tipped his quill up to keep from dripping. “Just… a brown one, alright? Or tawny. Not - not white.”

“Yes, Master Malfoy.” Kreacher eyed the Horntail where it had started tearing long, thin strips off of the empty envelope and arranging them into a pile. “Master Malfoy’s toy is making a mess.”

“It’s not a _toy,”_ Draco said.

“Apologies,” Kreacher quickly corrected himself, and bowed low. “Master Malfoy’s… friend… is… playing with… rubbish paper.”

“Yes, it does that,” Draco answered dismissively, turning back to his parchment. “I think maybe it eats paper. How long do you think it will take for the owl to arrive?”

“Not long, Master Malfoy.”

“Excellent.”

He stared down at the blank paper. 

_'Dear Charlie,'_ he wrote. _'What kind of antisocial madman eats Salmiak?'_

He crossed that out, and then crumpled the parchment and tossed it away, and summoned another one, ignoring his dragon as it flapped after the discarded ball. 

Try again.

_'Dear -'_

No.

 _'Charlie,'_ he wrote, and gnawed on the end of the quill. _'No harm done. I was just a bit surprised, as I wasn’t aware anyone else knew I was here…'_

***

Severus closed the door behind them and turned to look at Harry, standing there in their bedroom in his borrowed robes. He’d kept it together admirably well during their goodbyes, and in talking to Draco, and Severus could see in the way he was holding himself that pretending that way had taken everything he had. And looking at him, Severus wondered if he was going to be able to do this at all. He doubted Harry would accept a massage this time. Or a bottle of Dreamless Sleep - which Severus did not have, anyway.

“Shall I draw a bath?” he asked. “I did promise you one.”

“No,” Harry answered simply. “I don’t want to take a bath yet. We can have one after, ok?” He waved a hand at the door, apparently warding it. “Right now I want you to undress me.”

“If you want me to undress you, I will,” Severus said evenly, suppressing the tingle of anxiety in his bones. This was going to go terribly, he could tell already. “But I want to talk to you. Come into the bath with me.”

“Mm, no.” Harry opened his hand, and a long rattan cane appeared in his palm. “I don’t want to talk yet. Don’t make me, ok? I’ve already talked a lot today. Everyone wanted to talk to me. Not you, too.” He held out the implement he’d conjured like it was a gift. “Please.” Severus took it from him, and laid it on the dresser. 

“Will you sit with me, at least?” he asked, and Harry’s expression flickered - a tiny echo of the boy that had hurled a glass at him, and screamed in his face, and dissolved into tears. 

“No,” Harry repeated, his voice fraying just a little at the edges. “I don’t want to sit, and I don’t want to take a bath, and I don’t want to talk. I want you to hit me, and you know that’s what I want, so don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.” He flicked his fingers, and something else appeared. Not rattan, or bamboo, or birch, but steel, or something like it. A long, thin, silver switch with a tapered tip. It hovered for a moment, glinting in the light, before dropping into his palm. He offered it up. “Sir.” 

Severus looked askance at it. “If you think I’m going to hit you with that right now, you haven’t been paying any attention,” he said. “Put it away, Harry.” 

“If you think I’m gonna take no for an answer right now, _you_ haven’t been paying any attention.” Harry cut the new tool through the air and the tip split in two. A forked tongue of flexible metal, long, and thin, and not even remotely a toy. Even a single stroke with it would draw blood. A dozen would cut him to ribbons. It was a weapon, and mercy, it had been a while since Harry asked for something that would put him in bandages. “Hit me first,” Harry continued. “You can heal me after, if it’s really bad. I won’t try to stop you. I know how much you like to heal me. And then I’ll say whatever you want, ok? Ask for my colors.”

_I know how much you like to heal me. What a fucking thing to say._

_“That_ will never touch your skin as long as I’m alive,” Severus said with a sudden flare of annoyance. “Give it to me.” He _accio’d_ the wicked thing right out of Harry’s hands, holding him back with one arm when he made a grab for it. 

“Hey! Severus-” 

“No,” Severus interjected, ignoring the anger that flared hot in Harry’s eyes. He knew perfectly well that it was really fear. Harry’s anger almost always was. “You conjured a field of purple hyacinths today. Do you know what purple hyacinths represent?”

“No,” Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his face away. “You’re the one that likes _flowers,_ not me.”

His tone was snide, but Severus did not respond in kind. “They represent remorse,” he continued carefully, laying the whip beside the cane. “Guilt.” He looked back just in time to see Harry’s lip set into a hard line. 

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he said.

“I’m afraid I must insist.” If Harry had summoned almost anything else as he’d withdrawn into his psyche, Severus might leave it. If he’d called forth a flood of white lilies, or carnations, or daffodils, or fairy lights, or daisy chains, or wreaths, or an army of paper dragons. But Harry had tipped his hand. Harry’s magic had betrayed him, and dragged his shame into the light, and as Harry’s expression went blank like he’d put on a mask, Severus braced himself for pressure. This was the hard part, and always had been. 

Limits.

Severus had never been any good at telling Harry no.

“Hey,” Harry said softly, moving close enough to slide his palms down Severus’ chest. “Don’t make me talk right now, ok? I don’t want to talk.” He tilted his head, looking up at him through his eyelashes, his sudden flip to coquetry both patently false and more than a little disturbing. But it was, of course, exactly what Severus had been expecting. He’d seen Harry do this before, and had folded under it more than once. He’d whipped him black and blue, and raked his nails over the welts, and choked him unconscious, and… well. He’d done all kinds of things. But he wasn’t going to fold this time. He wasn’t going to beat, or fuck, or terrify the grief back inside of him. It needed to come out, and it was going to. 

He just had to be strong enough.

“Undress me. C’mon,” Harry continued. “I’m all blank under my shirt, but you can fix it. I know you can.” He pressed his fingertips into Severus’ clothes, and at the touch, desire absolutely _poured_ into Severus’ belly to mix sickeningly with the old shame. He hadn’t felt that shame in ages, but he was feeling it now. Because God help him, he could, and he _wanted to._ “Will you fix it? I just want your marks on me. That’s all I want.” He’d done it so many times, back when the day they were in was the only one they had. Back when forcing Harry to his knees really was the best Severus could do, because it was the only place Harry would rest. “I wanted it this morning, too. Before we left. Wanted to ask you to tie my hands over my head, and just… ” His fingers flexed. “Show me who owns me.”

Sweet Merlin it would be so easy. Just hit him, and fuck him, and put him to sleep, and pretend everything was fine. Just pretend Harry hadn’t laid bare his soul out in that cemetery, the way Severus pretended he hadn’t asked for _real bodily harm_ the night Ron was poisoned, or the way he’d told himself it was all for the best when he sent Harry to the Burrow so black and blue that anyone with two eyes in their head would have poured a dozen healing potions into his mouth and called the DMLE. 

It would be easy. Easier than what he was about to do, anyway. Because there would be no repeat of that Christmas. Not ever. He could give Harry as many bruises as he wanted later. He could well and truly drop him into the center of the earth when he wasn’t lying so egregiously. But not like this.

“I just want your marks,” Harry murmured, tugging on his robes and angling for a kiss. “C’mon. Sir. Please.”

_No._

Severus turned his face away. 

“You didn’t cry,” he said, and Harry abruptly shoved away from him, incensed.

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t, ok? I don’t want to, and you can’t make me.” Severus caught his arm. 

“Harry,” he said warningly. “I know you, and those flowers were a scream. Do you think I can’t hear you screaming?”

Harry wrenched his arm free. “Get _off,”_ he snarled. “I said _no._ So _fuck you_ if you think you can make me. Alright? _Fuck you._ If you don’t want to play, fine. But I didn’t mean to make any flowers, and I didn’t mean to _go blank_ or whatever, and I am not talking about it, either.” He turned around. “I’m going to take a walk.” 

“No, you are not,” Severus said, grabbing the back of his robes. “You’re going to talk to me.”

“Back OFF,” Harry barked, whirling around and slapping off his hands. “What part of _NO_ are you not understanding? It’s really great that spilling your guts to the Prophet made you feel so much better, but I am NOT going to do that. _NO,_ okay? _NO.”_ Severus seized a fistful of his robes and pinned him back against the dresser. 

“I have never listened to _no,_ and neither have you,” he said, trying his level best to keep his voice calm now that Harry had switched strategies to provocation. The last time they’d fought about this, Severus had lost his temper, smashed a goblet, and sent him away. But they were not in the castle anymore, and Harry did not have a dorm. This was Harry’s bedroom, and Severus himself was Harry’s safety. “We’ve done this dance before, Potter, but I am not going to back off this time. I am not going to let you walk out of here, and I’m not going to let you hide, and I’m not going to drug you, or _hit you,_ either. You think you can decompensate that way and pretend it doesn’t matter? You think I am even _capable_ of watching you exhibit a trauma response that strong and just letting it pass? Harry. I didn’t allow you to self-destruct in this house two years ago, and I’m certainly not going to allow it now. I love you, and I’m trying to spend my life with you, and whatever this is, I won’t have you holding it in. It’ll rot you from the inside.”

“Fuck off, _Severus,”_ Harry sneered back. “I need. To take. A _walk._ I feel like I’m being pretty fucking _clear.”_

“You are,” Severus answered. “But there is not a chance in hell I’m going to let you leave by yourself. Just talk to me. Please. We can walk together. Anywhere you like. But I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.”

“I don’t want your _help,”_ Harry hissed, trying to shrug him off. “I’m fine. I’m just tired, and I’m not doing this right now. I can’t. So just let me go, and I’ll come back later.”

“Absolutely not.” Severus held him still against the dresser. “Tell me why. Why those flowers?” 

_“Why?”_ Harry demanded. “I told you I don’t know _why._ They’re just _flowers_ for God sake. Let _go.”_

“Why are you guilty, Harry?” Severus asked, his enunciation clear, and steady, and deliberate, and there was a sudden twist of pain on Harry’s face, and then a flash of panic, like a pocket of sap in a burning log.

“I didn’t know you were an _idiot!”_ he snarled, but Severus remained unmoved when he tried to push him off, and braced one foot back to hold him more firmly as the switches were knocked to the floor. 

“I’m not,” he said. “I know why, but you have to say it.”

“Say WHAT?” Harry finally burst out. _“What the fuck do you want me to say,_ huh? That I KILLED THEM ALL? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME?” He shoved Severus hard in the chest. _“I KILLED THEM, OK? They’re DEAD! And it’s MY FAULT!”_

Antique glass sprayed against the walls as the overhead lantern exploded, and Harry turned parchment white like it had been someone else’s voice hurling that horrible accusation at him. And though Severus had known it - though he’d _known_ Harry must have been carrying that belief around with him all along - to hear it so baldly was more shocking than he’d expected. 

“Harry…” he began. “That isn’t true.”

Harry’s chest was heaving, his expression stricken like he was looking at a guillotine. 

“Severus,” he whispered. “Hit me.”

“I won’t,” Severus answered, and Harry pressed his lips together.

“But I deserve it,” he gasped out. “Sir. Please. I want you to, and I deserve it. I - I-” His eyes twitched over Severus’ face, searching for something to say, some reason why Severus _had_ to. “I - I made you give that _interview._ I surprised you with it. I made you - tell your secrets - to _everyone._ It made you sick, I know it did. I _heard you getting sick,_ and it was me. My idea. I did that to you. Didn’t that make you angry?” God, he sounded so desperate. “Don’t you want to hit me?” 

“No,” Severus said. “No, love. I don’t want to hit you. I don’t want to hurt you. You know this isn’t what it’s for. This isn’t what we do.” Harry’s whole body went rigid against the dresser. 

“What do you mean _this isn't what we do?”_ he hissed. _“This is exactly what we do.”_

“It isn’t,” Severus answered. “And you know it isn’t. I am not angry with you, and even if I was, I wouldn’t hit you for it. Think. Have I ever hit you because _I_ was angry?” Harry’s calm mask was totally gone, his expression filled with terror, and seeing it, Severus wondered which specific instance of his compassion was doing that to him _._ There had been a lot of pain between them. A lot of unwanted kindness, particularly at the beginning. “I haven’t,” Severus continued. “I’ve hit the wall. I’ve hit Lupin, and I’ve broken things, and I’ve gotten very, very drunk. I’m not perfect, and I don’t pretend to be. But I have _never_ hit you in anger. That is not what we do, and it never has been. _That_ is abuse, alright? It’s abuse, and I know you don’t always know the difference, but _I_ know the difference, and I am not going to hurt you because you think you’ve done something wrong. None of this is your fault. Do you hear me? You have never been responsible for this war, or a single life lost, no matter what the prophecy said. You were a child.” He moved to touch Harry’s cheek, but Harry jerked his head away and bared his teeth.

“Ooh, a _child soldier,”_ he sneered, visibly crushing his panic back down like he could just pretend it wasn’t there. Like if he could just think of something awful enough to say, he could still get what he wanted. “How original. Doesn’t that make you a _pedophile?”_

Severus was a little proud of the twist of sorrow in his chest. No rage, no violent impulse. Just sorrow. He knew too well what was happening to bow to offence. “I told you that is not going to work,” he said. 

“You _fucking-”_

“Coward?” Severus supplied, and Harry opened his mouth to retort, but stopped mid-inhale, clapping one palm against the center of his chest like he was afraid his heart might burst right out of his body.

 _“Oh, God,”_ he gasped. “My _magic_ \- _let me go.”_

Severus covered his hand with his own. “Harry,” he said gently. “You’re alright. We’ll fix the lamp, and whatever else you break. We’ll clean it up. Just try to breathe, now, and don’t worry about your magic.”

 _“Red,”_ Harry choked out, scrunching up his face. _“Red - let go.”_

“I hear you,” Severus answered, and that time, when he moved to cup Harry’s cheek, Harry didn’t try to shake him off. Didn’t even seem to notice, really, like all of his focus had turned inward. “But this is outside the realm of the colors.” 

“Nothing’s outside the colors,” Harry whispered, and then let out a little cry, curling forward on himself over their joined hands, digging his forehead into Severus’ shoulder. “Oh - _no. Red. Red._ You can’t - just - change the rules. _Nothing’s outside the colors.”_

“Some things are.”

There was, of course, only one _red_ in all their time together that Severus had ignored. Just one, and right then he could think of nothing else but turning his back on an explosion of sparks and rain _._ And maybe Harry was thinking of that night, too, because he started to struggle. Violently.

“Let GO!” he demanded. “Red means stop! Red means _you have to stop!_ YOU HAVE TO! You can’t - just- _change it._ You _CAN’T! Red!”_ Sparks poured out of him, flooding across the floor, but Severus did not let him go. Severus manhandled him over to the bed, spilled him face-first onto it, and got on top of him. “RED!” Harry shrieked into the blankets, wildly kicking his legs, and Severus hooked his feet over his ankles and forced them to the bed. “GET OFF! You _SWORE!_ RED! RED! YOU SWORE YOU SWORE _YOU SWORE TO ME!”_ He bucked and thrashed, throwing his head back, and Severus crossed his arms over the back of his neck and pressed his face hard into the pillows along with the rest of him.

 _“Stop,”_ he said, giving Harry all of his weight when he persisted in trying to wrench free. “I’m not letting you go until you calm down. You’ll hurt yourself. STOP.” Harry did not stop. He twisted and arched, letting out a rageful snarl, but then a powerful tremor ran through him and there was a loud crack.

He froze solid, and over the sound of their breathing there was a tinkle of glass.

 _“Severus,”_ Harry whispered. “My _magic - you have to get off-”_

“I know,” Severus answered into his hair. “I can feel it.” And he could feel it, too. Harry’s body was thrumming with energy like a live wire, and there was magic coming off of him in little stifled bursts, raising the hairs on Severus’ arms. “But you’ve never hurt me this way, and you won’t hurt me now. Don’t worry about the windows. Just listen. Listen to me. I know what you’re feeling, but you are not responsible for anyone but yourself. Not me, and not Fred, and not anyone else.”

 _“Get off-”_ Harry gasped, his fingers twisting into the sheets and his eyes squeezing shut. _“Get - away - from - me-”_

“You did everything you could,” Severus continued. “More than anyone had any right to expect.”

 _“Lie,”_ Harry hissed, and then dug his own face into the pillow with another little cry. It was hurting him. Merlin, what Severus would do to figure out how to keep it from _hurting him. “LIE.”_

“It’s not a lie,” Severus answered. “It’s the truth. You went into that clearing to save people you’ve never even met. _You_ were ready to die for _them,_ and without you, thousands would have been lost.”

_“Stop it - Severus-”_

“Just _listen,”_ Severus insisted. “Whatever you think you did wrong - whatever you think you could have done better - there was no way to do it better. I knew the Dark Lord more than anyone on earth, and no matter what he said, no matter what _anyone_ said, if you hadn’t been as strong as you were, the graves would have stretched for miles. Every student. Every Professor, and Auror, and House-Elf, and Muggleborn and member of the Order, and all their families. It would have been a _genocide.”_ Harry let out a moan of pain, inhaled, and held it in with absolutely iron self control, and Severus buried his face into his hair, wanting to drill the truth into his head. _Make_ him hear it. “I bought into Albus’ bullshit, and I led you by the hand to your grave, and I’m sorry. I’m _so sorry_ for making you feel like it was all up to you the way he did _._ But you couldn’t have gone sooner, and you couldn’t have done it faster. I’ve been the last one standing, too, and I know how much it hurts. Believe me, I _know._ But it’s natural. It’s expected. Inescapable, even. It’s called survivor’s guilt, but that doesn’t mean you’re the guilty one _._ Are you listening to me?”

 _“I - can’t,”_ Harry wheezed, and Severus abruptly realized that, no, he wasn’t listening. Every single fiber of his body and mind was at that moment fully and immovably bent towards keeping his magic from boiling out and incinerating the house. “I can’t - can’t _hold it-”_

“So don’t,” Severus answered, nuzzling against his ear, his cheek, _needing_ him to understand that he wasn’t a killer. That he was a protector. A healer. A shield, not a weapon. Not a monster, not a failure, not a _killer,_ no matter what he’d been through, or what choices he’d had to make. “You won’t hurt me. I know you won’t. You never-” 

There was something on his face. 

Something… wet. 

He lifted his head to look, and with a heart-stopping twist of fear saw that it was blood. Blood smeared on the pillow and on Harry’s face, down his chin, turning the bedclothes black.

“Harry, love,” Severus said, his voice tinny and far away in his own ears. “Your nose is bleeding. I think you should let it out. Just - Just put a shield around us, and let it out. I’ll be fine, like at the Shack. Just… protect the house, and I’ll be fine.” 

Harry’s eyes snapped open, and in the millisecond before he vanished, Severus saw a bloom of red appear beside his iris and spread like ink, and understood what he meant to do. Saw it clearly, the way he’d seen it on his face in the Headmaster's office. That he meant to leave, and that Severus could not stop him.

“Wait-” 

Severus landed on his face on the empty bed, and over four-hundred kilometers away, Harry appeared on his hands and knees in sand, surrounded himself with light, and screamed. 

  
  



	8. Brother, Sister, Family, Friend

“HARRY?” 

Severus took the stairs two at a time, pelting from room to room, banging doors open and leaving them gaping as each one revealed itself to be empty. Harry was not in the house. Harry was not answering his call, and he could be anywhere on earth. He could have apparated himself straight to the fucking moon for all Severus knew, and Merlin, that _blood._

“HARRY?”

“What’s the matter?” Draco asked, leaping to his feet as Severus tore through the parlor. “What’s happened? What are you doing?”

“He’s GONE,” Severus barked, and seized his bracelet. _“Chimera!”_ Nothing. It was his fourth attempt, and though he did not really expect a reply, he certainly wasn’t going to give up. Harry might be unconscious, and so might feel only the tenth, or twelfth, or fiftieth call. _“Chimera!_ Come on. Harry, _please.”_

“Harry’s gone?” Draco asked. “What do you mean? Is - is that _blood?”_

“What in Merlin’s name is the racket about?” Narcissa asked, poking her head through the door.

“I mean he’s _gone,”_ Severus snarled, and raked both hands through his hair, trying to think. “He _left,_ alright? He LEFT.” Hogwarts. It must be Hogwarts. That was the only place. It would be almost empty. Surely he was there. In the grounds, or - or the forest. Yes.

“Severus, for God’s sake, calm down,” Narcissa said, holding out her hands. “What happened?”

Severus rounded on her. “Just _stay here._ Both of you!”

“But, wait-” Draco said. “I can help-”

“STAY!” Severus slammed the door open, and pivoted on the spot. 

_Crack!_

***

Bill and Fleur were cuddled up on the sofa together when it happened, listening to Minerva recount the tale of _the Anti-Umbridge Swamp_ to the remaining mourners. The story had just reached the point where the twins triumphantly summoned their confiscated brooms when Fleur suddenly stiffened in Bill’s arms, and for a moment he was worried. But before he could so much as ask if she was alright, he felt it, too: the chill tingle up his spine alerting him to the fact that someone had violated the wards around their house. No… not the wards _around_ the house. The wards _on_ the house.

They looked at each other. 

“That horrible woman had _no prayer,”_ Minerva was saying. “No prayer! She couldn’t even _begin_ to overcome that magic, and _let me tell you,_ she was ENRAGED. It was _fantastic._ I thought she’d explode with frustration. Best charmwork I’ve seen out of a student in my entire career! And so _smelly.”_

“I fancy a smoke,” Bill announced to the room in general, stretching his arms over his head. “How about you, baby? Care for one?”

“Zat sounds _parfaite,”_ Fleur agreed, and stood up with him.

“You _quit,”_ Molly muttered as they passed by her chair. She had both hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea, which Bill thought was probably mostly alcohol. Minerva, however, wasn’t even pretending. Her drink was in a tumbler. Neat.

“It ‘as been a long day, Molly,” Fleur answered. “Just one.”

 _“Bill,”_ Molly said morosely, and Bill gave her a kiss on the top of her head. 

“I’ll quit soon, mum. I swear. Next birthday, alright? Promise.”

_“Hm.”_

“That patch of magic will persist for as long as the school stands, mark my words!” Minerva cried, spilling a little down her robes. “Immortalized forever! The Fred and George Weasley memorial BOG.”

Out in the garden, Bill and Fleur strolled away from the windows and out of sight, and then apparated straight to the property line of Shell Cottage. The wind at their house was more dependable than the sunrise, and they were confident in the crash of the waves to sweep the tell-tale _pop_ of their appearance straight out to sea. And so, after appearing behind an outcropping of rock near the edge of their wards, they set about _disillusioning_ each other.

“There,” Bill said once Fleur was no more noticeable than a particularly glossy bit of air, and his own body had taken on the exact color and texture of the scrub and stone around them. “Stay behind me. If anything happens, apparate back straight away, alright?” 

Fleur nodded after the barest hesitation, and stayed a pace behind as they crept forwards, wands at the ready.

At first, there was nothing visibly amiss. The house looked undisturbed, and certainly there was no Dark Mark in the sky to indicate a surviving Deatheater out for revenge. There were no shattered windows, and no blasted hinges to be seen. But then, as they passed the garden wall, they came across an odd, circular burn on the sand. It was large, putting Bill in mind of an old bonfire, but as he stooped down to get a closer look under Fleur’s cover, he realized that it had not been a bonfire. The center of it was glass, and still radiating heat like a baking dish.

“What in Merlin’s name could have-”

 _“Mon trésor!”_ Fleur gasped, and Bill looked up from the burn, following her camouflaged finger to the sea. And there, sitting on the very lip of the sheer cliffs, there was a boy. A tousle-headed, small-ish boy with a very familiar silhouette. “It is Harry, _non?”_

It was Harry, there was no doubt. Harry, _by himself,_ on the edge of the world, with a bottle in one hand and his head in the other. A bottle, and a scorch mark, and no Snape, which was the most concerning part, really. For though Bill knew he was not fully abreast of what, exactly, Snape and Harry were about, he knew this was not it. He hadn’t seen Harry alone since the battle, and he doubted anyone else had, either.

He caught Fleur’s wrist as she made for him.

“Wait,” he whispered. “Let me talk to him. Go to Headquarters and tell Severus I’ve got him. No _way_ does he know. If he knew, he’d be here.” 

“But-” Fleur began, but then stopped herself, and changed tack. “What if ‘e is not at ‘eadquarters?”

“Just- tell whoever’s there,” Bill answered. “Even if it’s Kreacher.”

Fleur paused, shielding her eyes as she looked back at the cliffs. “Keep him still, yes?” she finally asked. “I think ‘e is not well.” Bill just took her head in both hands, and kissed her. 

“Go tell Severus if you can find him, alright? Go.” She looked over at Harry one more time, her expression pensive, but did as he said, and turned on the spot. That _crack,_ too, was carried away by the wind, and Bill took a deep and fortifying breath, wishing he’d brought Hermione. Or even Ron. Bill Weasley certainly wasn’t the best person on earth for this, but hopefully he could talk Harry into the house or something like that. Off the edge, anyway.

Or just… further away from it. 

He dropped his disillusionment charm. 

***

Harry was not at Hogwarts. He was not at Dumbledore’s grave, or in the clearing in the Forbidden Forest, or on the Quidditch pitch. He was not in Severus’ old rooms, or in the Gryffindor dorms, though Severus did not expect him to be in either of those places. Harry was not anywhere in the grounds, and Hagrid’s hut was dark, and Harry was not responding to the bracelet at all. 

Standing outside the gates, Severus clutched his head, squeezing his eyes shut and scouring his brains. Where else could he have gone? Where _was_ there to go? The Burrow? Surely not. Everyone was there, and Harry had been about to explode. He would never endanger the Weasleys that way. Never. So, where? Privet Drive? He couldn’t imagine Harry choosing to appear on that godforsaken street if it was the very last place on earth, even if his only living relatives -

He opened his eyes.

Godric’s Hollow.

_Crack!_

***

Harry took another swig of whatever horrendous paint thinner he’d found in Bill’s kitchen and kicked his legs, knocking a few pebbles off of the cliff face to tumble to the water. He didn’t hear the splash. All he could hear was the surf, and when his bracelet heated again, he ignored it. Severus had called him so many times in a row that it had started to burn him, and he didn’t want to see what he was saying, so he’d taken the bracelet off and put it in his pocket. That didn’t stop Severus from calling him, though. Damn thing was like a hot little skillet against his thigh. 

He glared out at the waves. 

If Severus singed a hole in his own dress-robes because he couldn’t leave Harry alone for two fucking seconds, that was his problem. 

Stupid idiot.

Stupid, stupid idiot didn’t understand how dangerous Harry’s magic was. Severus thought he knew everything, just like always, even though Harry had proven him wrong time and time again. Harry _‘shredded the literature’_ and was _‘a_ _unique case’_ and _‘violated all magical laws,’_ but Severus still thought Harry couldn’t hurt him, just because Harry hadn’t hurt him _yet._ But Harry knew different. Harry knew that he could hurt anyone, and that Severus and Ron and Hermione had obviously survived the razing of the Shack because Harry _intended_ to save them. That had been the _purpose._ But Harry’s life was not a pretty fairy tale, and what he’d felt pinned down to the bed had not been the same at all. He was dangerous. Really dangerous, and fat lot of good it would have done them both if he’d liquified Severus’ insides or something. Because he could have. He could have turned Severus into a scorched skeleton by accident, just because Severus wouldn’t let him leave when he _really, really needed to leave._

Bastard.

Served him right if he was scared now, and running around looking for him. Severus could search all he wanted. Severus could scour the entire earth and he wouldn’t find anything. Because even though Harry had not set a destination other than _do not hurt Severus,_ his magic had taken care of that. His magic had panic-apparated him straight to the one place on earth he _couldn’t_ hurt Severus, because Severus could not go there at all. Shell Cottage was under an intact Fidelius, and Severus had never been let inside it, so even if he knew exactly where to go, he wouldn’t be able to see the house. Even six inches away it would look like an empty cliff, so Severus was just going to have to wait. He was just going to have to be patient until Harry decided he was ready to come back, and right then, he felt like it might be a while. He still had to calm all the way down again, and get really drunk, and maybe make some new flowers for Dobby’s grave. 

Might take all afternoon. 

Maybe he could even make some _shame flowers_ if his _shame_ was strong enough. 

He scoffed, and took a drink.

_Flowers._

Whoever decided what flowers meant was off their bloody gourd. Why would someone need a flower that meant _guilt,_ anyway? Was there a _rage_ flower? How about a _stupidity_ flower? Who decided yarrow meant _wounded, everlasting love,_ or whatever that book said? 

_Everlasting-wounded-warrior-love-healer-fidelity_ flowers. 

Severus was such an _arsehole_ sometimes. 

All Harry had wanted was to be taken out of his head for a while, but _noooo,_ Severus wanted to talk about Harry’s _guilt flowers._ Severus wanted to hold him still and tell him to _calm down_ like he wasn’t a fucking walking atom bomb.

Was there a flower that meant _fuck off?_

He opened his free hand and sprayed a fountain of petals into the sea. They were a garish mixture of purple and pink, and as they fluttered away in the wind, he wondered if there really was a flower that meant fuck off, and if maybe that was it. Maybe he could give a bouquet of those to Severus and wait to see what sort of face he made. Just a huge bouquet of every bad feeling Harry had ever had, including _guilt,_ and hand it to him and say - _I almost killed you, you huge knobhead. Next time I make something explode, let me take a walk._

Scowling down at the bottle, he vindictively imagined Severus bursting into Hogwarts and wherever else, getting progressively more panicked as he ran out of places to look. Let him panic. Let him be upset. Harry was upset, too. Harry was so upset that when he’d woken up, his mouth had been all full of blood and sand, and his barrier had been in tatters around him. He’d thought his shields were indestructible, but obviously they weren’t, because the shining stuff had been hanging off of the inside of his bubble in curled strips like gold-leaf scorched off of cheap jewelry. And no one had managed to do _that_ before. The Dark Lord hadn’t even made a dent, and neither had the Minister of Magic, or Severus, or McGonagall, or anyone else. Leave it to Harry to be the only person that could fuck up his own shields. 

But his magic had, apparently, held up against itself just long enough to keep him from turning Bill’s house into a crater, and thank God for that. Harry was already enough like a plague without flattening every place he visited, and he liked Shell Cottage a lot. He’d liked it almost from the moment he’d first seen it. After he’d buried Dobby, anyway. It was beautiful, and lonely, and isolated, and serene. The kind of place that made you feel like the only person left in an empty world. It was a bit like his magic that way. Like no one could reach him. No one could touch him, and he couldn’t hurt anyone. 

Except… there was a sound. A little crunch of gravel beneath boots, right behind him. 

He stiffened. 

How in Merlin’s name had Severus-

“Not thinking about jumping, are ya?” 

_Holy fuck._

“Whoa, easy there,” Bill continued, catching hold of his robes as he jolted sideways. “Drinking on the edge of a cliff is considered dangerous, you know.” 

“Bill, jeez,” Harry gasped, clutching his heart. “How did you know I was here?”

“You tripped my wards,” Bill answered easily, plopping down to sit beside him. “This is a safe house. It’s got wards all over.” He nodded at the bottle. “Especially the liquor cabinet, eh? My prized possessions.”

“I - sorry,” Harry said, trying to recover. “I did mean to - I just - I didn’t think anyone would -” He blushed. “I wanted to be alone.” 

Bill just peered at him cornerwise, and did not offer to leave. What he said instead was, “you’ve got blood on you,” which Harry already knew. He’d rinsed his face in Bill’s sink, and washed his mouth out twice, but he could still taste it, and washing up hadn’t done anything at all for his eyes. But nothing was hurting particularly, so he figured he was fine. His magic had just wanted to come out, and now it had, and he’d managed not to incinerate or kill anything, so overall it seemed like a win.

Even if he did have blood all down his front, and inside his eyes.

“Yeah I know,” he said, and that was all. He did not say the obvious thing, which was that he was alright and no one had touched him. He just waited for Bill to ask, which Bill did.

“...Someone been knocking you about?” 

_Did Severus hit you?_ was what he was really asking, of course. And that was what McGonagall had tried to ask, and what Draco had wanted to ask, and what Lupin thought, and what Rita had splashed all over the Prophet when Harry hadn’t answered her letters. _Does he hit you? He hits you, doesn’t he? He must. He must hit you._

 _Abuse,_ he thought. _That’s abuse._

For a moment, he imagined saying yes just to cause trouble. Just opening his mouth and saying, _‘Severus hit me, so I left,’_ and standing back to watch absolutely everything fall apart. A part of him wanted to do it, like a part of him wanted the cliff to give way underneath him and spill him into the sea. That was the part of him that had taken all that Dreamless Sleep, and gotten him to the clearing when it mattered, and the part of him that had come to Severus in the first place. Looking for _abuse._

And look what he’d gotten instead. 

_That’s abuse, alright?_

_It’s abuse, and I know you don’t always know the difference, but I know the difference._

Sitting there with his legs dangling over the empty air, he had an insane urge to just jump. Just pitch head first onto the rocks and crunch up like Greyback’s head under a crystal ball, and never have to talk to anyone, or explain anything ever again. That would be so much easier. 

He took a sip of the foul liquor instead. He had no idea what it was - it had just been the first bottle he’d found - but it tasted terrible, so he was hoping it had a high proof. 

“Eh?” Bill prompted gently, and Harry realized he’d just been staring into nothing, and gave his head a little shake.

“No,” he said. “Nothing like that. It was my magic. It made my nose bleed. And, um, my eyes.” He fidgeted with the cork. “I got sort of… angry… and was trying to control it. It’s… uh. Pretty hard sometimes.” 

“I bet it is,” Bill said. “Wouldn’t trade with you, that’s for sure. Not even for the God-powers.” Harry snorted. 

“Yeah. Kind of a mixed blessing, there.”

“Seems like,” Bill answered casually, rummaging in his pocket for an elastic as his hair whipped in the wind. “So… I haven’t seen you by yourself in a while. Where’s your man?”

Harry looked at his knees, brushing at a scattering of sand. 

“Headquarters,” he said, and there was a silence as Bill held the elastic in his mouth and gathered his hair together. 

“Bet he’s not there anymore,” he said, securing his ponytail and holding his hand out for the bottle. “I bet he’s busy tearing the country apart just now.” He took a drink. “Don’t you think?”

“Probably.”

***

Severus had not set foot in Godric’s Hollow for years, but he remembered it very well, and had no trouble at all finding Lily’s grave. Back during the Dark Lord’s long convalescence, when secrecy hadn’t been as critical, he’d visited nearly every week. But Harry was not there, and the flowers he could see scattered about were of the regular, non-Harry variety. Nothing huge or chaotic or logically impossible, and no destruction, and he left the grave for the ruins of the Potter cottage without much delay. No Harry there, either, though it was surrounded and crammed full of gifts and offerings, including what appeared to be a magically-preserved rendering of Harry as the Chosen One, cast in ice. And that was odd, but he had no time for it, and he went straight to the town square to see that the memorial statue was similarly festooned with garlands and cards and magical bouquets. He stood for a moment, just looking at it. At James, Lily, and Harry Potter, frozen in stone the way they must have looked the night their little family was torn apart. And there, staring at Lily’s downcast eyes as they rested forever on her son, he tried to think where to go next. He’d been so sure of Hogwarts, and then the graves, but… there had to be somewhere else. 

He should call again. 

He pulled back his sleeve, but before he could so much as touch the silver, a snarl sounded from behind him and he nearly came out of his skin.

_“POTTERRrrr…”_

He whirled around, wand aloft, but it was only a child. A little boy in a long black cloak, holding out clawed hands as he pursued his playmate. _“You dare defy me again? BOW!”_

 _“I never bow!”_ came a shriek of defiance, and a little girl streaked by, her hair a mass of curls and a pair of overlarge spectacles on her face. And though Severus’ anxiety was by that time truly starting to peak, he did still have enough space in his brain to wonder if Harry might like to see what he was seeing. The piles upon piles of offerings pouring from the great hole in his childhood home. The gifts cascading from the stone hands of his late parents, and off the unscarred head of his infant self, and the fact that, to the next generation, it was already over. 

Already a game to be played in the late afternoon sun. 

_“Aha!”_ came a screech from the other side of the statue. _“EXPELLIARMUS!”_

_“Don’t be stupid! Harry Potter doesn’t use SPELLS.”_

_“Yeah he does!! Everyone uses spells!”_

_“Not Harry Potter! He doesn’t need to! My mum saw it in the paper! He just decides things!”_

Severus’ stomach turned over.

He hadn’t checked the Shack.

_Crack!_

***

“Well,” Bill continued when Harry did not elaborate. “I’m never one to turn down a bit of wallowing. I love a good wallow, myself.” He handed the bottle back. “What are we wallowing about? Not your bloody nose, I take it. Oh, here. _Tergeo.”_ He pointed his wand at Harry’s chest, stripping off the blood and sand and leaving him just as spotless as he’d been when he’d arrived at the funeral thinking everything was going to be fine. 

“Thanks,” Harry said, and gazed out at the tumultuous sea, wondering how he could get Bill to leave. He really did want to be alone, and Bill had probably left the reception just to come investigate his broken wards, and that made Harry feel bad. As if he needed anything else to feel bad about. “But I’m not wallowing. I’m fine. I just needed some air.” He sat up a little straighter, trying to seem like someone that didn’t need to be _minded._ “You should go back to be with your family.” 

“I am with my family,” Bill answered easily. “A piece of it, at least. Turns out my littlest brother broke into my house to steal alcohol, so I’m dealing with that right now. Trying to talk him down, you know. Bit alarming, since he’s got God-powers, but don’t worry. I’m a pro and can definitely handle it.”

Bill peeked at him out of the corner of his eye, and even through the scars it was such a Fred-and-George-ish expression that Harry choked on his scoff as it fought to transform into a laugh and a sob both at once. What in Merlin’s name was he supposed to say to that? Thank you? Piss off? 

Fucking hell. 

He rubbed at his eyes and took another swallow, wondering what sort of monstrous hybrid the emotion inside him right then would call up out of the dirt. Something poisonous, probably. Ugly and poisonous. Not purple hyacinths. Or hey, maybe purple hyacinths _were_ ugly and poisonous? He had no idea. 

“Do you know anything about flowers?” he blurted out, and immediately cringed. 

“Flowers?” Bill repeated. “Not much, no. Seems like one of your things.”

“It isn’t, really,” Harry answered, and nervously touched his bracelet through the layers of fabric. “Sorry about the service. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Don’t be,” Bill answered. “Mum loved it.” He held out his hand, and Harry passed the bottle back, watching him take a long pull, apparently unaffected by the taste. “Everyone did. Like mother nature herself blessed the grave.” 

“Yeah, well, it was just me,” Harry sighed. “Do you…” He hesitated. “Do you know what kind of flowers they were?”

“No,” Bill answered. “Just that they were purple. _Really_ purple. Smelled good, too. Why?”

“No reason.” Harry dragged his fingertips through the sand and gravel beside him, somehow relieved and disappointed both at once. “Severus just… he likes flowers.”

“Does he?” Bill asked. “That’s surprising. Doesn’t seem like a _flowers_ sort of bloke to me, but I suppose he’s got layers. Complexity, eh? If he was just the great prick we had in school, you probably would have lost interest by now.” He nudged Harry in the arm with the bottle, and Harry looked down at it, and then up at Bill’s face, his disappointment abruptly overcoming his relief. 

Harry’s magic had tried to apologize, but no one had understood. No one had heard it but Severus, and to Severus, it had been so loud that he’d called it a scream. 

Maybe Severus was right, and he should just say it. Just let it out, so it didn’t _rot him from the inside._ And there could hardly be a better time. He didn’t think he’d explode again so soon, and Bill was _right there_ calling Harry his brother and trying to be funny. Those flowers had been for him, at least a little, and he deserved to hear it, so why not? If Fred had come to poke fun at him and share the bottle, he might have said it right to him. 

He wished he could, really. 

_Sorry I killed you. You didn’t deserve to die._

“I’m sorry about your face, you know,” Harry said. 

“Oh, yeah, me too,” Bill answered lightly. “Sometimes I’m _really_ sorry about it. I was pretty good-looking, before.” He offered Harry a crooked grin, a pinch of damaged tissue pulling his lip up strangely in one corner. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“No,” Harry said. “I mean it. I’m sorry about getting your face torn off.”

 _“You’re_ sorry about getting _my_ face torn off?” Bill asked. “Hey now, I don’t think Greyback would take too kindly to your taking credit for his maimings. He worked hard for this one.” He leaned back on his hands, bending one knee to brace his foot on the stones, apparently at ease. “And, you know, I’ve actually thought about this a lot. I had a long time to mull it over while I was in hospital wondering if Fleur was still going to want to marry me now that I look like I stuck my head in a thresher. Sort of a Beauty and the Beast situation, except I wasn’t ever going to go back to being a prince, yeah? And don’t get me wrong - I was pretty bothered at first. I cried, and salt-water is pretty hard on open Werewolf-wounds. But if I could do it over, I would make all the same choices, and _no,_ that isn’t rubbish. I did what I came to do that night. My brother and sister both made it out, and no other kids died. Pretty solid trade when you think about it like that. My face, for their lives? I took it, and I’d take it again, and it didn’t have anything to do with you, really.” He glanced at Harry and then away, directing a wry smile towards the endless expanse of sea. “I mean, Harry, mate. I like you, and you’re very cute, but I didn’t join the Order just for your sake, eh?”

Harry opened his mouth and closed it again. He had not been expecting the flippancy at all. He was trying to be serious. He was trying to bare his soul, and Bill was being… Bill. Didn’t he _understand?_

“Well, George’s ear, then,” he said. “That was definitely my fault. That night was a mess. Moody’s dead for Merlin’s sake.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure Severus Snape cut off George’s ear. And Moody was killed by Voldemort himself, so don’t disrespect his legacy.”

“Yeah, ok, _fine,”_ Harry said shortly, and then exhaled slowly against a fresh flare of temper. He should have known Bill would try to make him feel better. That was what everyone else did, wasn’t it? No one ever accepted his apologies. It was like he was a little kid that wasn’t responsible for his own actions. _You did everything you could,_ indeed. That was bullshit, and this conversation was bullshit, and so was Bill’s _fuckery,_ and he obviously should have kept his mouth shut, but it was too late now. 

He took another swallow, and pointed at Bill with the bottle. 

“If you don’t think it matters that the whole thing was for ME, then I’m sorry about _Ginny._ You know. Being possessed by the _devil?”_

“You saved Ginny’s life. Killed that monster, too. Saved all kinds of people. Probably every muggle-born in school. And Mrs. Norris. AND-” Bill held out his hand. “Don’t think I don’t know you gave your _Felix Felicis_ to Ron and Ginny the night I got hurt, ‘cause I do know that. Hermione, too. Probably saved the lot of them.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You’re being _obstructionist.”_

“Obstructionist?” Bill laughed. “You really do spend all your time with Snape. He must be excellent in the sack.”

“Fuck off, Bill,” Harry sneered. “How about your dad, huh? SNAKE bit him. Big giant SNAKE, remember? Because of _me.”_

Bill sighed, finally dropping his playful attitude. “I’m sorry, Harry. I know what you’re trying to get me to say, but it just isn’t true. You saved my sister, and my brother, and you saved my dad, too. If you hadn’t had that dream, he would have bled out on the floor. You are absolutely, one-hundred-percent responsible for him being alive today.”

“PFF. I’ve almost killed everyone in your entire _family,”_ Harry spat. “So what if I _mostly_ prevented it at the last second? Especially Ron. Jesus. How many times have I almost gotten _him_ killed? Ten? _Twelve?”_

“You’ve done no such thing,” Bill countered evenly. “Very arrogant to suggest it, really.” He pulled the bottle from Harry’s fist and drank. “I’ll have you know that my family is perfectly capable of almost getting _themselves_ killed. No need to take all the credit.”

“That is _ridiculous,”_ Harry said, and hurled a handful of gravel off the cliff. “There’s a bit of a _pattern,_ Bill. I don’t know why no one else wants to admit it. It’s pretty fucking obvious if you have EYES. If I hadn’t sat next to Ron that first day, everyone would be _fine._ You’d still have your face, and George would have his ear, and Fred-” he stopped abruptly. “Can I have that back?” 

***

Harry was not in the ruins of the Shrieking Shack, and neither was anything else. Just barren earth and ash, and Severus apparated to his own house in Cokeworth almost immediately, though he knew Harry had never been there, and then to the graveyard where the Dark Lord was resurrected, and then to the Forest of Dean, and finally, in a froth of panic, straight to Privet Drive. It was the only place he could think of aside from Harry’s safehouse, but he couldn’t go there because no one had ever told him where it was. So he camouflaged himself behind a hedgerow, and then stepped out onto a street so sterile and deserted that it could only be a Muggle suburb, and set about locating Number Four. 

It didn’t take long. The house was unexpectedly conspicuous - its lawn overgrown and riddled with crabgrass, and its flowerbeds a tangle of dead weeds - and as he made his way up the front steps to peer in the windows, he remembered that the Durselys had been evacuated just before Harry came of age. He’d reported it to the Dark Lord himself, of course, and in the layer of dust on the furniture inside, he could see that they had not yet returned. 

Perhaps no one had bothered to tell the despicable fiends that the war was over. That would be fitting. Let them stay huddled in terror for as long as possible, laying all their hopes on the boy they’d treated like an animal. 

He looked over his shoulder at the nearly-identical houses surrounding him, their shades drawn and their gardens so immaculate they looked fake, and then back at the front door.

Harry might have known the house would be empty. Harry might have known the Dursleys were gone, and had come straight there to be alone. Surely he’d wanted to be alone, even if this was not a good time for him to be alone.

Even if he might be somewhere inside, unconscious in a pool of his own blood. 

_“Alohamora.”_


	9. Call and Response

Bill scanned Harry’s posture, and then the level of the bottle in his hand. “If you get too drunk and pitch off this cliff, Snape will skin me alive, and that _will_ be your fault,” he said, and Harry glared at him and slapped one palm onto the sandy stone they were sitting on. At once, a network of shining threads burst into life below their feet with a crackle. He pointed at it.

“Net,” he said, and held out his hand.

“Fine.” Bill returned the bottle, watching Harry’s face twist up in disgust as he drank. “That’s a wedding present, you know,” he said. “Older than you are.”

“I’ll refill it,” Harry answered dismissively, and shuddered. _“Blech._ How do you drink this stuff?” 

“Oh, it’s an acquired taste,” Bill said. “And it pairs very well with self-loathing.” 

Harry laughed unkindly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Suppose it does.” 

There was a silence, cut only by the surf. 

“Do you really think my family wouldn’t have been in this war if you hadn’t come along?” Bill finally asked. 

“Yep,” Harry answered. “I’m a black cloud. A bloody _cursed object.”_ He drank again, relishing the burn, rather wanting to be staggering whenever he decided to stand up. “I was a _Horcrux,_ wasn’t I? Had a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul _inside my body._ That could be why. Who knows?” Maybe he’d black out again, but in a normal way. Not a weird, magical Harry way. Just regular old alcohol poisoning. That would be good. 

He scrunched his face up at himself, wishing Severus had just given him a beating and been done with it. 

“Do you know my mum’s maiden name, Harry?” 

Harry looked up at the apparent non sequitur, startled to find Bill’s eyes fixed on him, his gaze uncharacteristically serious. 

“What?” Harry asked. 

“My mum’s family name. Do you know what it is?”

“I… don’t think so.” 

“It’s Prewett.”

“Prewett?” The name rang a tiny bell somewhere in Harry’s brain underneath the buzz, and he blinked. _Prewett._ Who’d said that? _Prewett._ Had it been Mad-eye? He tried to remember. _Prewett… Prewett… Vance… Bones… Potter._ “Weren’t they…?”

“In the original Order?” Bill supplied. “Yeah, they were. My uncles, Gideon and Fabian. My mum’s brothers. They were murdered by Deatheaters the year I started school. Horribly, or so I’ve gathered, since the caskets were closed and she never talks about it.”

A chill raced up Harry’s spine and straight into his left arm. “Fabian…” he said slowly. “She-” He stopped, and pushed back his sleeve. “Your mum. She gave me his watch when I turned seventeen. Fabian Prewett.” He turned it in the light. “She just told me he wasn’t very careful with his stuff, but I didn’t - she never… Deatheaters?”

“Like I said, she doesn’t talk about it,” Bill answered. “But if you think there was any way for my family to stay on the sidelines, you’re wrong. Even if you’d never been born, or if you’d never sat next to Ron, or if you’d been sorted into a different house, or whatever it is you think. Just because the name is gone, that doesn’t mean the Prewetts are gone. I’m a Prewett, and so are my brothers and my sister, and you know what? Prewetts fight. It took five Deatheaters to take my uncles down.” He tapped his cheek. “Scars are nothing, mate. We’ve all got scars.” 

Harry looked down at the scratched and dented surface of his watch, momentarily lost for words. 

Gideon and Fabian. 

Five Deatheaters. 

He’d seen their picture, he remembered it now, and it _had_ been Moody who’d shown him. The decimated first Order, immortalized in film. Mad-eye had shown it to him like it was a treat. Like seeing all those dead and maimed people was a fun, interesting little curiosity. The Prewetts, and his parents, and the Longbottoms, and Sirius, and all the others. 

_They fought like heroes._

“Now, can I ask why you aren’t wearing your bracelet?” Bill continued, glancing pointedly at the bare skin Harry had inadvertently revealed along with the watch. It was skin Harry himself hadn’t seen in a year - not since Hermione took the cuff off of him the night Severus left - and it was pinked from the incessant calling. He jerked his sleeve back down, feeling exposed. “Is there an uncommonly large nose I need to break? ‘Cause I will. He doesn’t scare me.” Bill’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Much.”

“No,” Harry answered. “I - no. It just… it got too hot. It gets hot when one of us calls, and if you don’t answer, it sort of… stacks up.” His bracelet heated in his pocket right at that moment, and he cleared his throat. “It was burning me.”

“Wanna tell me why you’re not answering, then? He must be going mad.”

Harry looked at his hands. “Not really.” 

_“‘Not really,’_ as in, you don’t want to tell me? Or _‘not really,’_ as in, he isn’t going mad?” 

“That… first one.” 

“Yeah, I get it,” Bill sighed, with an air of complaining over a pint with an old friend. “Fleur’s always trying to get me to talk about my feelings, too. Drives me bonkers.” He took the bottle and drank. “Women, am I right?” 

Harry glared at him.

“I’m not really in the mood for messing about,” he said. 

“No, I suppose you’re more in the mood to drink in an objectively bad place to drink, and terrify the living daylights out of our dear friend Severus Snape. And _salud_ on that, Mr. Potter. He is very hard to terrify.” 

Harry scoffed. “Yeah. Not an easy person to rattle.”

“You seem to manage alright, though,” Bill said. “Might be the only times I’ve ever seen that man afraid, it was for you. In fact, I’m sure.” He held up one finger. “Christmas.” He held up a second. “Final battle.” He opened his hand. “And that’s it.”

Harry started to retort - possibly something about Severus being scared other times than those two - but he abruptly found he had nothing to say. Sure, Severus’ fear was rare, but he’d seen it more than _twice._ The problem was, those other times… it had still been for him. 

He looked down at the sparkling net under his feet and said nothing as the cuff burned brightly again and again.

***

Severus searched the whole house, his heart hammering. All the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the closets, and the garage. He called through his bracelet, and called again, and apologized, and begged, and cursed, and then apologized for that, but Harry did not answer, and Harry was not there. And what was Severus doing in Number Four, anyway? What an insane idea. A bloody waste of time. Harry would not have come there. He’d never even spoken of it after that first night, nor did he allow Severus to speak of it. No matter that Harry had been forced to call it home for so long. No matter that he’d grown up there. He would not have returned, and there was no sign of him in the house at all. There were no photos of him on the walls, or any indication that a magical person of any kind had ever set foot there. Even the fireplace was fake, and there was no attic, and frustrated and afraid, Severus descended the stairs at a fast clip.

Where next? Where else was there?

He was drawing a complete blank, and he didn’t think he could stand returning to Headquarters to just wait. He supposed he could start over. Go back around to all the places he’d already searched and look again, or else go to the Burrow with his hat in his hand and ask for help. Harry might have gotten himself under control somewhere else and returned there, and even if he hadn’t, Severus could swallow his pride and ask Molly or Ron or Hermione if there were any places he didn’t know about - any places Harry had felt safe - places he’d spent time that he’d never mentioned, or -

He froze mid-stride, an ice-pick of certainty stabbing him straight through the heart.

_They kept me in a cupboard under the stairs._

He turned around.

_That’s where I lived._

It was right there. 

A little door, hardly waist-high, nestled beneath the staircase he’d just been standing on. It was the sort of place a poorly-treated House-Elf might be put to stay out of sight, and he approached very slowly, like it might vanish under scrutiny. But it didn’t vanish. It was real, and very slowly, he reached out his hand. 

He didn’t know what he’d expected, really, but the exceeding normality of stacked shoes and umbrellas was not it, and he stared into the dim, forlorn space momentarily hollow of emotion. That couldn’t be _the cupboard._ It was impossible, not least of which because it was far too small. From wall to wall, it was hardly large enough for an average child even to lie down. 

But, then… Harry had not been average, had he? Harry had been small, and Harry was small even now, and always would be small.

_They … sort of … starved me._

They. 

Albus had done that to him.

Albus had left Harry in that horrible place when he could have given him to any Wizarding family, or any other _Muggle_ family. But, no. Albus had left Harry on the front step of Number Four Privet Drive, entrusting him to the benevolence of Lily’s nasty, bigotted sister. Petunia Evans who, as a child, had filled Lily’s head with such poisonous, vindictive, envious lies that Lily, hardly eleven years old, had come to him weeping. Asking him through her tears if she was a _freak,_ if her magic made her wrong and wicked, and if she was going to hell for being a Witch. 

Little _Tuney,_ who had taken custody of a baby boy and proceeded to treat him like something disgusting and to be hidden. Lily’s nasty sister, who’d allowed her nasty husband and nasty son to beat him, and starve him, and teach him that he was worthless. That he did not deserve kindness, or comfort, or even a clean, warm place to sleep. Not even a window. Not even a bed.

Well, Severus had killed Albus, and Severus had killed the Dark Lord, but their erasure from the world could not change the fact that no one had intervened when it mattered. No one had saved Harry. No one had even tried, and he'd spent ten years right there, in that house, learning what sort of attention he deserved. In that cupboard under the stairs, with its low, cobwebbed ceiling, and its exposed copper pipes, and its… 

He squinted.

The little sliver of red was only just visible behind a protruding bend of pipe, but even so, it was incongruously vivid in the dreary squalor. It was the only splash of color in the whole house, really, and Severus reached out for it from what felt like miles away. 

It came away easily, trailing a tangle of spider silk furred with dust, and he looked down at the little toy soldier in his disillusioned hand. It was scuffed and dirty. Faceless with use, and missing an arm. 

His ears started to ring.

***

“Incredible you two got away with it, really,” Bill continued lightly. “Because, mate? It was pretty obvious. Can’t imagine how you managed at school looking at each other that way.”

“He is a spy, you know,” Harry said. “Fooled the Dark Lord right up until the end.” He knocked his heels against the cliff face. “Never got caught.”

“Don’t I know it. But like I said, you were different. The first time I ever saw you together…” He pushed a strand of hair out of his face. “When he came to check on you at the Burrow, I mean… I took one look at him and thought, ‘hey now, does no one else see that?’ The way he dealt with Scrimgeour was enough to get me thinking by itself, but when he saw you unconscious? Panic. And I mean _panic._ But my mum and dad thought it was all just fine and dandy, like the way he was acting was normal _tutor behavior_ or something. Felt like I was taking bloody crazy pills.” He frowned at his boots hanging out over the water. “And - listen. I know you don’t get along too well with Remus after everything that happened, but he’s my mate, and he’s told me some things. He came round to my house after that fight you broke up at Headquarters. Must have come straight here, since he was still busted up and everything. Black eye, split lip, blood all down his front… Anyway, he told me who it was he’d been brawling with, and I figured he’d just finally lost it on Snape for needling Sirius the way he had. But he set me straight on that pretty damn quick. Threw a full bottle of scotch against my living room wall when he said it. So I’d known what _he_ thought was going on for a while, but I was pretty sure he’d gone round the twist.” He inclined his head. “Right up until that Christmas.”

“He shouldn’t have gotten involved,” Harry said quietly. “It never had anything to do with him.”

“Funny how people decide what is and isn’t their responsibility, don’t you think?” Bill answered mildly, and Harry stared out at the glitter of the sea for a long moment, and then sat forward and took a swig from the bottle.

“Bill,” he said. “Don’t try to tell me a story, alright? I’m tired.”

Far in the distance, a sea-bird dove into the water, and they watched it resurface empty-beaked, and dive again. 

“Fine,” Bill finally answered. “I’ll just say it straight out then, shall I? Here goes: Everyone feels guilty. Not just you. Everyone thinks they could have taken a different turn, or made a different choice. You remember how my mum and dad were back when Fred and George first tried to join the order, yeah? When they were sneaking about, trying to get into the meetings? Well, my parents think that if they’d just pushed a bit harder, Fred and George might have been kept away. Kept safe, I mean, as if the pair of them would ever have allowed it. And Remus. Merlin. Talk about guilt. I’ve visited him a few times since Dora died - me and Fleur, to see Teddy, and check up on him, that sort of thing - and he’s a mess. Has been for ages, really. When we lost Sirius…” He let out a low whistle. “He fell apart. Drinking all the time. Staying up all night. Acting like a right lunatic. I guess he felt responsible for letting Sirius stay in prison for so long when he was innocent. Like he should have _known better,_ or tried harder, or something. I didn’t know much about the whole situation, but…” He shifted uncomfortably. “Guess it was pretty fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “But that wasn’t Lupin’s fault. _No one_ believed Sirius. Everyone thought Pettigrew was dead. What was he supposed to do?”

Bill just shook his head. 

“That’s my point, Harry,” he said. “Remus feels guilty for not looking out for you the way he thought James and Sirius would have wanted, and he feels guilty for Sirius, and now his wife. He thinks he should have died in her place, or kept her away from the battle, or done something - anything - to save her. He thinks he should have been able to stop Sirius from going to the Department of Mysteries, and he thinks he should have been able to protect you, too. But you don’t want to be protected, and you know who killed Tonks _and_ Sirius?”

 _Me,_ Harry thought. 

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Harry said.

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Bill agreed. 

“And Lupin killed _her.”_

“He sure did,” Bill said. “But I don’t think it made him feel very much better, and I don’t think getting rid of the Dark Lord made you feel better, either. Since you’re sitting in my yard in your funeral outfit with your bracelet in your pocket.” Harry stayed quiet. “I’m telling you, Harry, you do not have a monopoly on guilt. My mum feels guilty for her brothers, and her children, and Remus feels guilty for his friends and his wife and you, and Snape feels guilty, and Ron and Hermione and Kingsley and me and _everyone else._ You say you feel bad about my face? You know who else feels that way? My wife. Was it her fault? Not even remotely. Was it yours? No. It was bloody Greyback’s fault, and he’s in the ground.” He paused, looking at Harry’s hand, and Harry realized it was in his pocket and took it out again. “And this is just a stab in the dark, but humor me. _I’m_ guessing that Snape said this exact same thing to you - but probably more concisely - and you didn’t want to hear it, so you walked right out. No. _Wait,”_ he held out both hands. “You fucking _disappeared_ right from his arms to the _one place_ you knew he couldn’t find you no matter how hard he tried.” He raised his eyebrows. “Am I close?”

“I was going to lose control of my magic,” Harry said, defensive. “I mean… I _did_ lose control.” He looked back towards the garden. “You saw what I did to the sand. I could’ve killed him.”

“And how about now?” Bill asked. “Still feeling _lethally upset,_ or has this extremely manly heart-to-heart succeeded in calming you down?” Harry glared at him and he smiled winningly. “We could drink more. Bond. Sing some war songs.” He cleared his throat ostentatiously, and Harry scoffed and pulled his bracelet out of his pocket, turning it over in his hands. _“The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,”_ Bill began in a solemn warble. _“In the ranks of death you’ll fiiiiind him…”_

“Bill,” Harry said. Bill ignored him.

 _“His father’s sword he has girded on, and his wild harp slung behiiiii-”_ Harry elbowed him, but succeeded only in getting an arm hooked around his neck. _“-iiind him. ‘Land of song!’ said the warrior-bard-”_

“Oi! Stop!” 

_“‘Tho’ all the world betraaaayysss-’”_

“BILL. OI!”

Bill laughed, ruffled his hair, and released him. “Fine,” he said. “I’m done.” He sloshed the bottle. “Last call, or have you had enough?”

Harry fussed at flattening his hair back down. “Of what, your musical stylings?” he groused. 

“I didn’t even get to tell you about the harp. It’s _faithful.”_

“Pff.” 

“Alright, then Mr. I-weigh-five-stone-and-I’m-gonna-drink-the-whole-bottle-by-myself,” Bill said, sticking the cork back in and setting it aside. “Let’s get you home, and next time you come visit, maybe you can have a glass, eh? Fleur makes an excellent sidecar. We’ve got the fancy stemware and everything, and a little cointreau will keep you from making that face.” He clambered up, and offered his arm. “C’mon. I’ll side-along you.”

“I don’t need a side-along,” Harry answered as Bill hauled him to his feet. “I’m fine.”

“You say that a lot, and somehow it always sounds like absolute rubbish,” Bill said, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “Snape knows it’s rubbish when you say that, right?”

“It’s not _rubbish,”_ Harry shot back, firing up at once. “I’m not _that_ drunk, and I don’t weigh five stone, and I’m…” He transferred his bracelet into his other hand and suddenly felt how cool it was. Almost cold, really, where his fingers hadn’t been in contact with it. “...I’m fine.” He frowned. Severus had been calling and sending messages nearly continuously since he’d regained consciousness, and the sudden silence was unsettling. When had the last message come? 

How long had he even been at Shell Cottage?

“I think maybe you should put that back on your arm,” Bill said. 

“Yeah,” Harry answered, and looked up. “Did you tell anyone I was here?”

“Just Fleur. Sent her to Headquarters.”

“I don’t think Severus is there,” Harry said. “I think I really did scare him.”

“I think you did, too,” Bill answered. “Let me side-along you. Snape will have my head if I let you splinch.”

“Nah, I won’t splinch,” Harry answered, slipping the cuff onto his wrist and tightening it to size. “I don’t think it’s even possible to splinch with the bracelets.” The chill of the silver against his skin was odd, and he pressed one finger to it to send a message, but paused. “Hey,” he said, meeting Bill’s eyes. “Bill. Thank you.”

“I could have been the next Celestina Warbeck.”

Harry gave him a weak smile. That close up, Bill’s face looked almost like an alien landscape. The twists and furrows of red scar tissue distorting his expressions, tugging at his mouth, and pocking his cheeks. The wide gap in the lashes over his right eye where Greyback’s tooth had torn his eyelid, and the jagged inclusion in his hairline where Greyback’s nails had ripped back his scalp. 

Ron’s brother.

Molly’s son. 

A Prewett. 

“Can I just…” Harry reached up and covered Bill’s face with his hands. 

“Oi, what are you-” Bill broke off with a strangled sound and jerked his head back, and there was a weird little tugging sensation in Harry’s palms as something resisted his magic. Something warm, and sticky, and yellowish, that stretched between his hands and Bill’s face like grotesque taffy. 

“Oh, _ew,”_ Harry gasped, holding his arms away from his body as the revolting stuff pulled free from Bill’s wounds to hang off his palms in dripping strings. “What the fuck is that?” He flicked some off to splatter on the ground. “Jeez. Gross. Do you have an infection or something? Maybe you should go to…” He blinked in sudden understanding, and looked up into Bill’s perfectly restored face, so colorless it was nearly translucent. “Hey. You did have an infection, didn’t you? Weird it came out like this. Ick.” He burned the gluey slop off of his hands, and then crouched down to scorch the drips off the sand, too. Just to be safe. 

And then there was a thump as Bill hit the ground in a dead faint. 

***

Severus stood camouflaged a ways back, fondling the little plastic soldier as the neighborhood exploded with activity around him. Great red vehicles with flashing lights arrived first, and then smaller ones no less violent in their apparent quest to trigger epileptic seizure in all who saw them. Uniformed men poured out in a swarm, waving back the curious and horrified neighbors as they gestured and pointed and made a perimeter. They attached a large canvas hose to a device on the street, and shouted into little black rectangles, and Severus just watched. There was nowhere to rush off to. Nowhere left to look. And he realized, as perhaps he should have from the start, that there was nothing to do but wait. Harry was so strong. Harry had endured so much. Severus just had to trust that he hadn’t hurt himself badly, and would reach out when he was ready. 

So he waited, watching the chaos and feeling rather more calm now that he’d released some of the tension inside him, and when his bracelet finally warmed against his skin, the heat from the fire was such that for a moment his brain failed to correctly interpret the sensation as a message. It took another two for him to realize what it was and push back his sleeve. 

_[Severus?]_ he read with a sudden and intense rush of relief. _[Severus? Are you there?]_ a pause. _[If you’re there, please say something. I’m sorry I didn’t answer you before. I passed out, and when I woke up I was pretty upset. But I’m ok now. Not hurt. I’m at Bill’s house on the coast. Will you call me?]_

The safehouse. He knew it.

There was a great hissing noise, and Severus looked back up to see a huge cloud of steam billow ineffectually up into the sky. Muggle fools. Water had no effect on _Fiendfyre._ It would stop when it had destroyed its target, and not a moment before. They should just be grateful it was he who’d cast it, instead of someone less able to direct its focus. 

_[Severus?_ _If you’re at Number Twelve I can just apparate. But… I think maybe you aren’t there. Will you call me? We can go home together. If. If you want]_

Severus withdrew his wand and wordlessly began casting a protective dome. 

_Praesidiaridam,_ he thought. _Protego Totalem. Cave Inimicum. Sanctusterram Nox._ It wouldn’t do to have Harry appear unsheltered beside him with all those people around. 

_[I didn’t mean to scare you. Or… I did, maybe. But not now, and I’m sorry. Are you there?]_

His magic in place, Severus touched his wand to his bracelet. “I’m here,” he said. 

_[Oh, thank God. Call. Please]_

A great fiery serpent burst out of the chimney and snapped at the sky, and an old woman fainted, and a cluster of first-responders rushed over to her. 

_“Chimera,”_ Severus said, blinked once, and Harry staggered into his chest. 

It was even less graceful than normal, and as Severus caught hold of him to keep him from falling out of the fragile boundary he’d made, he also caught a very strong whiff of alcohol.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Oh, a little bit, yeah,” Harry answered, getting his feet under himself, and as his eyes turned up, Severus could see that his sclera were splattered with broken blood vessels like paint dashed on a canvas. The bleeding looked pretty severe, but he was standing, and that was… more than Severus had honestly been expecting. “Sorry, I…” Harry trailed off, his expression growing suddenly concerned as his red eyes traveled over Severus’ face. “Why are you bloody?” he asked. “Whose blood is on you?” His nose wrinkled. “Is something...?” He looked over his shoulder, saw the madness raging in silence behind him, and spun around. All the people, and the identical houses with their neat front gardens, and the flashing lights, and the fire and steam and high arcs of water. 

His hands came up to his head.

“Severus,” he breathed. “What did you do?”

Severus moved to stand beside him, and held out the toy soldier. “I saw the cupboard,” he said, and then watched as Harry tore his gaze away from the billowing of smoke to fix on his hand, and then twitched back to his face. 

“Severus,” he said again, his voice hardly a whisper as behind him another plume of useless steam was released into the sky. “Whose blood is on your face?” 

“Yours,” Severus answered, his hand still outstretched. “No one was home.”

His eyes wide, Harry turned back towards the frenzy of activity, and then looked directly up over their heads, his mouth open. Checking for the dome, no doubt, which was indeed glistening around them, keeping them out of sight, and keeping the noise at bay. 

“I couldn’t find you,” Severus continued, as if that explained absolutely everything. Which, in a way, he supposed it did. Harry wasn’t the only one that could panic. Harry wasn’t the only one that could lose his temper and explode. It was the human condition, really. Love, and fear, and violence, and regret, and _mistakes._ “I looked everywhere I knew to look.”

Finally, Harry took the little broken soldier from his hand, cradling it in both of his own. They were adult hands, now - as broad as they were likely to get - but even so, they did not dwarf it the way Severus’ had, and Severus thought again of the size of the boy that had come to Hogwarts that first fall, and the spindly nobs of Harry’s spine under his palms, wet from the shower in Number Twelve, and of how easy it was to carry him, and he turned his eyes back on the fire, wishing he could light it all over again. Wishing the Dursley’s had been home after all, and that it was their blood on him. That it was their skin and fat popping in the flames, and their ashes swirling up into the sky to scatter to the four winds. 

A gentle touch on the back of his hand reminded him that he had better things to worry about than worthless swine. 

“Hey,” Harry said, nudging his fingers into Severus’ palm. They felt cool and very smooth, and Severus wondered idly if he might not have burned himself a bit in the casting. _Fiendfyre_ was notoriously difficult to control, and he’d been… distracted. “Hey,” Harry repeated, turning his back on Privet Drive and inserting himself into Severus’ line of sight. “Will you take me home?” A window exploded outward with a burst of fiery fangs and claws, scattering a number of firefighters, and though Harry flinched, he did not look around. He kept his eyes on Severus’ eyes, his focus unwavering despite the destruction proceeding nicely behind him, lighting up the tips of his hair like a sunset. “I want to take a bath. Will you take a bath with me?”

  
  



	10. The Thicket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. What an insane week.

Draco nearly hit the ceiling when they reappeared in the parlor of Grimmauld Place, his first word a screech of Severus’ name, followed immediately by Harry’s name at a still higher pitch, and then a veritable torrent of demands. 

_“Fucking HELL Bill’s wife came AGES AGO! Where have you BEEN? What were you thinking? What’s that smell? Is that smoke? What burned? What happened to your eyes? Can you even see? What in Merlin’s name did you do to him? You-”_

“Draco, darling,” Narcissa interjected, taking him by the shoulders and pressing him back into the sofa. “Let’s not make a scene. Take a breath.”

“But mum! Look at his face! He’s _hurt!_ He’s-”

“Draco, look at me. Stop.”

Severus ignored them. He ignored them as Narcissa spoke over Draco’s accusations with a calm but very firm voice, telling him to leave it, and sit, and that everything was fine. Telling him to _breathe, Draco, breathe,_ and to put his head between his knees, and that Harry was fine. He wasn’t hurt, he was fine. Everything was fine.

Severus ignored them, and he ignored it when Kreacher, who had apparently been skulking out of sight waiting for any indication that he was even tangentially needed, popped out of nowhere for drink orders, positively vibrating with anxiety. Severus just steered Harry towards the stairwell, and when he heard Draco’s plaintive voice from the first landing, he ignored that, too. 

_‘Did they have a fight?’_

A fight. How childish. One would think he was asking about his parents.

_‘No, darling. I don’t think so. Here. Drink this.’_

Well, Narcissa would take care of it. And if she couldn’t, Draco could carry his invasive fears straight to the grave for all Severus cared. There was only one thing on earth that Severus Snape cared about at that moment, and that was running a bath. So he gave no indication that he’d heard Draco’s question, and when they reached the master suite, he left Harry in the bedroom to take off his outer robes, and went to start the water. 

It was the third spout that was plain, he remembered, and once the stopper was set in the drain, he twisted the tap far to the left and released a stream of hot water. And then, that task completed, he doubled over. 

Bracing his hands on the edge of the tub against the prickling weakness in his legs, he breathed slowly, deliberately, counting and tingling and waiting for it to pass. It always passed. Always. He just had to stay still and breathe. 

_Inhale, one… two… three… four._

_Exhale, one… two… three… four… five… six._

_Inhale, one… two… three… four._

_Exhale, one… two… three… four… five… six._

He stayed that way, bowed over the gushing faucet, as he steadied his heart rate and gradually regained his peripheral vision. And as his body slowly got control of itself and reconnected to his brain, he tried to think what in Merlin’s name he was supposed to do now.

He tried to imagine what Harry would say when he came into the bathroom - what he himself might say in return - but he couldn’t. He had no idea what to say, or what to do, and looking down at his sooty fingers on the bright copper, he realized he hadn’t had any idea what to do for what felt like ages. Not since taking Harry into the pensieve, really. That was the last order he’d ever fulfilled. The burden he’d thought was the last one of his life. But it hadn’t been, and he had no master now. No general. No commander. No path to follow, and no one to tell him what to do, or correct his mistakes, or teach him how to be the kind of man he needed to be. There was no one but him, and he didn’t know what to do. 

_Get it together._

_You know what to do. Harry wants a bath, and you need one. You smell like smoke._

_Hot water._

_Basin._

_Simple._

_Now stand up._

_Stand. Up._

For a moment he thought maybe he couldn’t. That he’d finally, finally hit his limit and could go no further. But then there was the sound of a single shuffling footstep, and he straightened at once. It was Harry, of course. Harry lingering uncertainly in the doorway, and looking at him standing there, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt, still so very thin, and so tired, with eyes the color of a mortal wound, Severus suddenly found that he did not have to tell himself it was simple. It just was.

It was Harry, and what he felt for Harry was simple. It was huge, but simple.

He took a breath, and offered his hands. 

He’d meant it, perhaps, as a silent invitation to be undressed, or possibly an apology, but Harry surprised him by going directly into his arms. The embrace was so unexpected that it knocked the wind out of him, and with Harry’s face pressed into his chest, and Harry’s hands gripping tight to his back, he could not catch it. He couldn’t inhale at all, like there was a great fist pressing his diaphragm up into his heart, and with no air, he had no words.

No force to voice _I’m sorry,_ or _I love you,_ or _please, God, never do that again,_ or _are you hurt,_ or _tell me what you need,_ or _you left me, you left me, you left me._

He just stood there with Harry clutched in his arms as the silence settled over and around them, and as the bathtub began to steam. And when Harry finally spoke, his voice soft and dampened against his robes, the sheer practicality of it was like a slap.

“Did anyone see you?” 

He’d broken into a house, of course. He’d broken into a house and burned it to the ground, and that was against the law, and so was violating the Statute of Secrecy. He’d used _Fiendfyre_ in a Muggle suburb, and he’d go to prison for it, if anyone had seen him. 

Which they hadn’t. 

“No,” he answered, and as Harry exhaled in what sounded like relief, Severus realized that he could be practical, too. “May I take a look at your eyes?” 

There. Practical. Something a grown man would say. 

“Maybe take care of your face, first,” Harry murmured back without lifting his head. “You look like a butcher.”

“My face?” Severus turned his head to the mirror to see a wide smear of dried blood from his left cheekbone down to his chin, and having seen it, registered the uncomfortable stiffness and itch for the first time. “Oh.” He withdrew his wand and pointed it at himself. _“Tergeo._ I suppose I was walking around that way.”

_How embarrassing._

“Suppose you were.” 

“Well. I was-” _terrified._ “Preoccupied. Let me see, now.” Severus coaxed Harry’s head up from his chest and looked into his eyes. The blood seemed contained, and he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but the lack of red tears was certainly good, and the shadows under his eyes seemed due to exhaustion and not bruising. “Do you mind?” Harry shook his head, and Severus took his glasses, folded them, and set them aside. “Stay still.” Yes, practicality felt very good. Though he might have preferred something less… clinical. Hair-washing, or… making tea. Filling a plate with too much food. Practical.

“No lumos?” Harry asked, staying perfectly motionless as Severus tugged his eyelids down one at a time and bade him look at the ceiling, and then the floor, and at each wall. 

“Not this time,” Severus answered. “Follow.” He moved his finger back and forth, and Harry tracked it. “Very good. Any pain?” 

“No.”

“No?” 

Harry frowned, considering. “I mean… I don’t think so. But maybe something will hurt in the morning.”

“When you metabolize the alcohol?” Severus asked, and Harry made a neutral noise in response. Severus supposed appearing out of thin air at a crime scene had been somewhat sobering for him. “Turn your head. Left, and… right.” No blood in his ears, though there was a bit of sand. “Let me see your hands.” No burns. He turned them over to inspect the backs. Nothing. “Well,” he continued. “I suppose you’re unhurt, though you do look like you’ve spent the day under the _cruciatus.”_

“Do I?” Harry asked, and when Severus released him, moved over to the sinks to peer into his own eyes. “Huh. Hermione didn’t look like this. She was shaking, but…”

“It depends on duration.” 

Harry glanced at Severus in the mirror, and then back at himself. “Did _you_ look like this?” he asked. “After He tortured you.”

“Not quite so severe,” Severus answered, hesitating a moment before stepping up behind him. “But yes.” He rested his hands on Harry’s shoulders. “Heal it, will you?”

Harry leaned forward to squint fiercely into the mirror. “Really did a number on myself, didn’t I?” His eyes cleared. “Always something new.”

“Indeed,” Severus answered quietly, and when Harry straightened up, wrapped both arms around his waist. “Never a dull moment.” He turned his face into Harry’s hair, wondering at his own arrogance in telling Harry over a bottle of champagne that he was not frightened. 

“Why does it do that?” Harry asked, leaning back against him. “The _cruciatus,_ I mean. I thought it was just… pain.” 

Oh, excellent. Magical theory was very practical.

“It is just pain,” Severus answered. “But you’ve felt it, and you’ve seen its effects. It’s the seizing that does the damage, not the curse. The body injures itself in its distress. Dislocations… broken bones… concussion… internal bleeding… it’s all possible. But even without that sort of trauma, the eyes are delicate. Repeated muscle contractions raise blood pressure, and if it's sustained, or very sudden, the increase overcomes the structural integrity of the vessels, causing them to tear. It’s called a subconjunctival hemorrhage. But it’s superficial. Cosmetic. Even something like a very violent sneeze can cause a small one. ”

“Why make me follow your finger, then?” 

Severus paused, wondering if _brain damage_ was a little too practical to say. “I was checking something else,” he finally answered, and Harry gave him a small smile. 

“My brain, huh?”

“I… yes.” Severus turned him around. “May I?” he asked, and at Harry’s nod, began unbuttoning his shirt. “But your eye movement is symmetrical, and smooth, and so are you expressions, and no headaches…” He glanced up just long enough to see Harry shake his head _no_. “And you’re speaking and responding lucidly. Are you tired?”

“A little bit,” Harry answered as Severus slid his button down from his shoulders, folded it, and set it aside. “But I feel ok.” 

Severus was not quite able to withhold the incredulous twist of his lips at that ridiculous nonsense, but did not otherwise challenge him. Instead, he turned off the water to keep the basin from overfilling, and continued to undress him. He unclasped his watch and slid it free, placing it beside his glasses on the edge of the sink. Then he turned to Harry’s shoes and socks, and then his trousers. He’d expected more blood, but Harry was relatively clean. He supposed Bill must have taken care of him.

“How did your brother find you?” he asked carefully, sliding Harry’s shoes out of the way before directing his attention to his own clothes, which were not clean. Harry’s blood had soaked through his collar to the base layer, and he smelled horrible, and underneath his robes and waistcoat his shirt was tacky with sweat. “Were you unconscious?”

“Oh, no,” Harry answered. “Well, yeah. I was, but I woke up by myself. I broke in to Shell Cottage to wash up a bit, and it tripped his wards. I think he was still at the reception when he noticed. He said he sent Fleur to tell you, but I guess you were already gone.” He dipped one hand into the bath like he was testing the temperature, and did not look up. “Did you know the Prewetts?”

Severus paused halfway down the elaborate fastenings on his chest. “What, Molly’s siblings?” 

“Yeah. Her brothers. Gideon and Fabian.” 

“I knew of them,” Severus answered slowly. He _reeked_ of Harry’s burning childhood, and had no idea what the Prewetts had to do with anything. It felt like they should be talking about the Dursleys, but he supposed Harry never talked about the Dursleys, and if Harry wanted to talk about the Prewetts, or the Malfoys, or the Flamels, or the ancient lineages of Egypt instead, that was fine with him. “The Prewett brothers were killed just after I turned,” he continued, hesitated, and then dropped his robes down his arms and cast a freshening charm over them. The smell really was loathsome. Not like a hearth-fire at all. More like… poison. “That arrest I recounted for you… the warrant was for their murders.”

Harry looked back up. “For them? But - you didn’t…” 

“No,” Severus agreed, and moved to his waistcoat. “I didn’t. But Dolohov, Yaxley, McNair, and the Lestrange’s did.” 

“Did it really take all five? Bill told me it took five.”

“Oh, yes. The Prewetts were quite notorious.” He began peeling off his waistcoat and shirt. When had he gotten so drenched in sweat? Disgusting. “Powerful Wizards both, and fearless. Gryffindors, you know.” Bare-chested, he cast a scouring charm over himself and then gestured to the full tub. “Would you care for salt?”

“Salt?”

“For the bath. It’s relaxing, and… good for the skin.” He shrugged minutely, feeling suddenly foolish. Salted bathwater was not practical. “I quite like it.” 

“Sure,” Harry answered. “That sounds nice.”

 _“Cordemaris.”_ A stream of crystal salt poured from the tip of Severus’ wand, and he set the water to stirring itself before taking one knee to start on his boots. He’d worn the ones Harry liked - the ones with the laces - and they were rather a chore to get on and off.

“That’s his watch,” Harry said, nodding to the sink. 

“Whose?”

“Fabian Prewett. Mrs. Weasley gave it to me when I came of age. She said it was tradition. For Wizards to get a watch.”

Severus paused mid-tug, two fingers hooked under the cords over his instep. “It is tradition,” he said, staring down at the glossy leather, remembering. He’d been the one with blood in his eyes that day. Still shaking, at least a little, and more alone than he’d ever felt in his life, though Peter Pettigrew had been right outside his door. “I’d hoped someone was giving you gifts that day. I almost asked. Through the bracelets. If - if anyone was celebrating you.”

“They were,” Harry answered. “Mrs. Weasley really outdid herself. The cake was the size of a wagon-wheel. A golden snitch.” He laughed a little, but it sounded sad. “I wanted you, though.”

Severus looked up at him from where he was half-kneeling on the tiles, skewered by the memory. 

_Marry me._

_Will you marry me?_

He couldn’t say that. He couldn’t. He hadn’t a ring, and… he’d… committed arson. 

Not a very auspicious time, and certainly not practical.

“And I wanted you,” he said, and resumed unlacing.

***

Harry waited until Severus had fully undressed and situated himself in the water before stepping in after him. The heat felt unexpectedly wonderful, and he sank under the surface with an involuntary sigh, settling himself carefully between Severus’ legs and resting back against his chest. As an afterthought he waved at the sconces nestled up near the ceiling, dimming them nearly to nothing, and then, listening to the irregular dripping of the faucet and smelling burnt paint and carpet in Severus’ hair, he closed his eyes.

Harry knew what _Fiendfyre_ looked like, of course. It had almost killed him in the Room of Requirement, and _had_ killed Crabbe and Goyle, and destroyed a Horcrux along with a century of treasures. He’d thought he would never see it again now that the war was over, but that was what had destroyed Number Four, he was sure. And Number Four was just a Muggle house. It could have been reduced to ashes by any standard fire-starting spell, or even just a thrown match. But Severus had used _Fiendfyre,_ like it was evil, and might be hard to kill. 

Under the water, Severus’ touch was tentative across his ribs and over sternum, and for a moment Harry honestly considered asking if he would have killed the Dursleys if they’d been home. But he already knew what the answer would be, so he didn’t ask. He said something else, instead.

“You said you’d forget you ever heard it.”

“I know,” Severus answered quietly. “I lied.” That was all. He did not qualify it, or try to explain, or ask any more questions. He did not say what he’d seen in the house - if the Dursleys had left Harry’s abandoned things in his bedroom, or if there was still a cat-flap or too many locks or bars on the windows. He just touched Harry’s skin, and leaned his forehead against Harry’s temple, and said nothing. 

It felt like a gift, that silence. Precious and fragile. A thread of molten glass cooling in the air, not to be touched. A gift, the way Severus himself was a gift. For Severus had not exploded when Harry asked him to speak to Rita, and Severus had not disappeared or run away, and Severus had not shouted at him then, and Severus was not shouting at him now, even though Bill was obviously right that Harry had terrified him. 

Harry had terrified him so deeply that he hadn’t even noticed he had blood all over his face. But even so, Severus was offering him the silence. Silence, and patience, and salt in the bathwater.

So maybe Harry could offer him something, too. Something just as terrible as the little toy soldier now resting in Harry’s bedside table. Something just as awful as Severus’ uncontrolled weeping, rearranging the world in one seismic moment of absolute honesty.

That was what Severus deserved.

Honesty.

“Severus?” Harry asked.

“Hm?”

“Can I tell you something?” 

“Anything,” Severus answered, and in his tone Harry could hear that he meant both _you can tell me anything_ and _please, I'll take anything,_ and Harry’s heart squeezed in his chest around an apology so huge he was honestly surprised he didn’t just fill the tub with flowers all over again. 

Unsettled by the magnitude of the emotion, he took a deep breath and pictured Severus’ hands gesturing over Rita’s tea service as he fearlessly laid bare his mistakes.

He could do that, too. He could be a man, the way Severus was a man.

He hoped. 

“I don’t want you to try to make me feel better, okay?” he said slowly. “I just want you to listen.”

“As you like.” 

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Harry shifted in his arms, scraping his feet through the undissolved grains of salt on the floor of the tub, queasy with indecision. Where to begin? There was so much, and his head was starting to feel kind of cottony. Who first? 

“Do you know why Cedric died?” he finally asked. 

“Because he was in the way.” Severus answered in a low murmur. 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “But do you know why he was in the way?”

“No.”

“You remember that we were the last ones standing during the final task,” Harry began softly, drawing his fingers across the surface of the water. “Fleur and Krum had both been taken out, but when I got to the center of the maze, I was hurt. Cut. An Acromantula caught me in the leg and I’d sprained my ankle, too. I could hardly stand, and he - Cedric - he was with me. Ahead of me. He was just inches from the cup, so I told him to take it. To just finish it, and we could get out of there. Go to the Hospital Wing, you know? But he didn’t want to. He told me that I saved him, so it was supposed to be me. That I deserved to win. He wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell him I hadn’t done anything special. That I’d made a stupid mistake in trying to save the others from the lake, and that I’d had help with the dragons, and the egg, and everything. But he wouldn’t hear it. So I-” He felt a rush of cold, like he really had plunged off the cliff into the sea, and for a moment he was absolutely sure the words wouldn’t come out. But it seemed he was still just muddled enough to get past the clog of shame in his throat, and he was grateful for it. This would have been impossible sober. “I offered to tie. I told him that we could do it together. We could _win_ together. A Hogwarts victory, after all. And his father would - would be-”

“Proud of him?” Severus offered, molding Harry back more firmly against his body.

“Yeah,” Harry answered, and though his voice cracked, it was only once. “His father was always pushing and pushing him, and I didn’t want it, or need it, and Cedric - he’d worked _so hard._ I was trying to be noble, like Draco said. I was trying to do it right. But I killed him.” 

“Harry…” Severus began, but Harry stiffened and cut across him. 

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please. You promised, and I’m not finished. I want to tell you about Colin.” He launched into the story before Severus could say another word, speaking quickly, recounting the effervescent little blonde boy who’d followed him around for months and months, taking his picture and trying to be his friend. Annoying him with adoration and hero-worship. Colin Creevey, who’d come to his DA meetings, and must have returned to the battle in secret, just for Harry. Barely sixteen years old, underaged, dead on a sheet in the field hospital. Because of his love for Harry. “I killed him, too,” he said, and that time, Severus did not try to speak, though Harry could feel in the tension in his body that he wanted to. So Harry pushed on, hacking his words through the tightness in his chest, needing to finish before he lost his nerve, or before Severus’ willpower broke and he said something unbearable like _it wasn’t your fault._

Harry told him about Dobby, who’d died because Harry was too weak to control his own magic, and whose last words had been Harry’s name, exhaled in reverence with Bellatrix’ knife in his chest. Harry had always been a saint to Dobby, right from the very beginning, but still had failed to save him. Had _needed_ him - had brought him into the house of his slavers, and brought him out only to lay him in the ground. 

He told Severus about sending Tonks out of the Room of Requirement so that he could find the diadem. Just… sending her out into the battle, even though he knew she had a baby at home. A new baby, only weeks old, named after her murdered father. Harry’s own Godson, motherless, because Harry’d had a job to do. 

And then finally, his voice reduced to a low, tremulous whisper, he spoke a name that hadn’t passed his lips since he’d used it as a weapon back in that very house. Since he’d thrown it in Severus’ face like a fistful of sand.

_My father was right about you, and so was Sirius!_

_Sirius was a better man than you’ll ever be._

Sirius.

Severus already knew the story, of course. Severus knew perfectly well that Harry had fallen for the Dark Lord’s stupid trick, and his Godfather had paid the price. He knew that Harry had been an abject failure at Occlumency, had failed to control his emotions, failed to shield his mind, failed to calm himself before laying down to sleep. But what Severus did not know - what Harry told him, now - was that he’d kept his dreams a secret on purpose. That he’d wanted them to continue. Wanted so desperately to see beyond the door the Dark Lord kept showing him that he’d _longed_ for the dreams to come again every night before he closed his eyes. That Harry hadn’t learned Occlumency because he hadn’t cared to. Because he wanted to _know._ Wanted to see. Wanted - wanted - wanted.

Foolish. Childish. Arrogant, and headstrong. Thinking himself the only one that cared, the only one that could help. Taking his friends into mortal danger because he hadn’t done the one thing he’d been told to do. He hadn’t closed his mind, and he hadn’t even tried, and it was his fault. It was all his fault. 

And then he had no more to say. There were no more words inside him at all, and as he fell silent, he braced himself for pretty bullshit. For petting, and reassurance, and _pity._

For _you did all you could._

“May I speak?” Severus asked when Harry finally finished, and Harry nodded jerkily, staring down at their legs through the water. “I can see that you’re afraid I will try to tell you that you are wrong,” he began, taking Harry’s hands between his own, holding them firmly against the instinctive twitch of withdrawal. “Or that I will try to console you. But I won’t, and these lives you bear on your shoulders, you may carry them forever, the way I will carry mine. But, Harry. You are engaging in a logical fallacy. A schoolboy’s mistake, really. Very embarrassing.” He paused, waiting, and Harry very obligingly gave a deeply miserable chuckle. “Pay attention, now. This is important.” He gathered his professorial cadence around himself like a cloak, and began. “Aristotle taught that when one asks _‘why,’_ there are four methods of distilling an answer. He called them the four causes. The first is known as the _material cause._ Why is there a bath? Because there was copper to be shaped. The second cause is _form._ The design to hold water - the hollow basin - creates the bath. The third cause is the _efficient cause_ \- the knowledge of the craftsman who shaped the raw metal. The expertise which allowed him to cast and hammer it, and to attach the feet which hold it up off the floor.” 

“What… in God’s name are you talking about?” Harry asked. He sounded too baffled to be upset, which was just what Severus was hoping for. 

“A very astute reaction,” he answered. “The first three causes are insufficient to answer the question _‘why.’_ Why is there a bath? Because there was material to make it? Or because there was a design for it? Or because there was a craftsman to shape it?”

“No,” Harry said slowly. “There’s a bath so someone could have a wash.”

“Correct,” Severus said. “That is the fourth cause. The _final cause,_ as he called it _._ The sake for which something is done. Its purpose.” He gentled his grip on Harry’s hands, though he did not let go. “When searching for meaning, there is no cause but final cause. No guilt, no responsibility, but intention. Failure to save is not murder, and there is no killer but the one that struck the blow. Is it the copper’s fault that it is holding water, now? Or is it, perhaps, ours?” He pressed Harry’s palms together as if in prayer, and lifted them free of the steaming water. “If one cared to, one might find blame at every step. One might pass responsibility back and back to the first vein of ore. To the first creature that ever moved on earth. The first star in the sky. An unbroken chain of causality leading improbably to the present we live in, now. Each step, each moment, pivotal. Each decision, no matter how petty, critical. A man trains at the knee of a coppersmith, and twenty years later a child drowns, unattended. It is his fault, in a way, for it was he who wrought the basin. But to think in such terms is meaningless.” 

Lining their hands up so that their fingertips were perfectly level, he pressed Harry’s index fingers together with his own. 

“If I had never left you, and you had never lost your magic, might you have been strong enough when the time came to rescue yourself from the Manor? And if so, is Dobby’s death not as much my fault for breaking your heart, as yours for being heartbroken? Do not interrupt.” He pressed Harry’s middle fingers together. “If Sirius had killed Peter Pettigrew the night he was discovered, might the Dark Lord never have regained a body, and so never returned to power at all? And-” He pressed Harry’s ring fingers together. “If Lupin had succeeded in tearing me apart the night I discovered his affliction, might it all have been avoided? If I’d died there in the Shack as a student, I never would have heard the Prophecy, and so never would have turned the Dark Lord’s attention to your parents. You might have grown up with a loving family. Safe, and protected. Now, does that mean all of this is my doing, for failing to die? Or Remus’, for failing to kill me? Or your father’s, for pulling me away?” Harry made an unhappy noise, but Severus continued, pressing his little fingers. A final step in the direction of madness. Of wishful thinking, beyond all magic. Of blaming the nightshade growing wild in the forest for the murder of a king. “And what if Tom Riddle’s mother had died a bit sooner, or a bit later, hm? What if she’d died a childless maiden, or else lived to recognize what her son would become, and smothered him in his bassinet? What of that? Do we lay the blame at her feet?”

“Merope,” Harry said.

“What?”

“That was her name. Voldemort’s mother. Merope Gaunt.” He turned his head, resting his cheek on Severus’ shoulder, and closed his eyes. “Dumbledore showed her to me in those secret lessons. I saw her. She was pitiful. Neglected. Her father treated her terribly. No one - no one had ever loved her.”

A bright pinch of pain flared behind Severus’ eyes like burning phosphorus. Or perhaps more like the first lick of _Fiendfyre,_ catching on a broken umbrella. Blinding, and hot, and foul. 

“Might we blame him, then?” he asked. “Or his father? Or his father’s father?” Harry did not answer, and Severus dipped their hands back under the water, washing away the touch of all those forks taken, and bridges crossed, and corners turned, and all the ones left unsaid. If Harry might have told Minerva as a first year that he was being neglected at home. If Severus had folded and revealed everything when it might have mattered, and saved Harry some of his grief. If Albus might have let the light in, instead of keeping them always, always in the dark. 

“Am I the craftsman, or the bath, or what?” Harry finally asked.

“You are the copper,” Severus answered. 

***

Back at the Burrow, Bill lay in his childhood bed with his wife weeping in his arms. She’d let out an ear-piercing shriek when he’d returned, and his mother had dropped her mug with a gasp and a crash, and then every other eye had turned on him.

“Your face,” Ron had said into the sudden hush, sounding like he’d been hit over the head with something. “Bill. Your face.”

“Yeah,” Bill had answered with a shrug and a self-conscious grin, wondering if that was how Harry felt all the time. If it was, it was a lot. “The Chosen One paid me a visit. Guess he liked how I looked before, eh?”

It had restarted all of the crying, of course, and it had taken quite a while to extricate himself from the crush of his family, and their questions, and relief, and toasts, and hands, and hugs, but finally he’d been permitted to retreat with his wife. His wife, whose fingers were running over his face right at that moment, her touch soft and almost reverent across his jaw, his cheekbones, his eyelids, and brow. Over the shell of his ear, which had been torn in two, and over the smooth, unmarked skin just under his chin. He’d almost bled to death out of that spot, he knew. A single jagged nail on Greyback’s filthy finger had almost ended his life before it had really begun. But that wound was closed now, and there was no scar, no lingering numbness, no indentation, no nothing. 

“Bill…” Fleur whispered over and over again, her tears soaking into his shirt. “Bill… Bill… Bill…”

“I know, baby,” he answered, turning his face into her white-blonde hair. “I know.” He inhaled the scent of her skin - sweet, floral, and untainted by Greyback’s contagion for the first time in a year. He hadn’t believed it when he came to with Harry hovering over him, asking if he was alright, and he hadn’t believed it when he looked into his bathroom mirror to see his face restored. He hadn’t really believed it until that moment. Smelling her. He’d almost forgotten what she’d smelled like, before. His wife, his precious Fleur, curled up in his arms. Not a prey-animal. Not anymore. 

Just his wife.

Saint Harry, indeed.

A floor above the Quidditch-postered bedroom where Bill and Fleur were intertwined, Molly was similarly crying into her own husband's arms, whispering about Harry Potter while he stroked her back, trying to soothe her. And two floors below them, George lay quite still beside Angelina, staring at the ceiling as he listened to a story about the future they were going to share. The future that was surely still possible now, no matter that half of his soul was gone. No matter that a third of their little family was laid in the ground, never to be recovered. It was still possible. Surely. Surely it was. 

He was trying hard to nod in response to her gentle fairytale of a garden path and a white fence, but found he could not quite manage it. So he just listened, and watched the shadows creep across the plaster, and far below him, all the way down in the living room, Ginny sat playing snap with Percy, who had not slept for days and likely would not sleep any time soon. Charlie was there too, but he wasn’t playing. He was just watching them with a hot toddy warming his hands, thinking about his letter. Thinking. Wondering. Worrying, really. And at the very top of the house, many stories above the grief, and the gratitude, and the silence, and the dreams, Ron and Hermione were wrapped up together in his little attic bed.

“I think we should check on Harry before we leave,” Hermione said into the low light of a single candle, idly tracing the lines between the freckles on Ron’s chest. “If something happens while we’re with my parents…”

“He’s alright, ‘Mione,” Ron answered, running his fingers through her hair in sections, picking out the tangles. “He’s Harry, yeah?”

“I know. It’s just… he seemed so…” She struggled to find the right word. “...Tired.”

“We’re all tired.” Ron brushed his thumb over the tip of her eyebrow before taking up the next curl. “I think we’re gonna be tired for a while.”

“I suppose,” she sighed. “But I’ve never seen him that way before. He was just gone. Inside, somewhere. And what Severus said…” 

“Yeah,” Ron answered. “Scary. But he made all those flowers, and he came back from wherever he went, and what he did for Bill… Blimey, he’s strong. Stronger than all of us, anyway. Always has been. You know that.”

Hermione stayed quiet for a long while, trying to imagine how anyone could be as strong as Harry seemed to be, but all she could think of was Harry weeping over his little yellow flower, and she wondered. “Do you really think he’s alright?” 

“‘Course,” Ron answered simply. “He’s with Snape, isn’t he?”

***

“I’m sorry I left,” Harry whispered. 

“I’m sorry I tried to make you stay.” 

“I really was going to hurt you. I could feel it.”

“I believe you,” Severus answered. “But you didn’t.”

“I did, though.” Harry’s eyelids drooped as he finally began to succumb to what must have been a truly bone-deep exhaustion. He probably wouldn’t be able to make it to bed, but that was alright. Severus would carry him. “I did hurt you. I said all that stuff, and I… had my bracelet in my pocket. I took it off. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just… I dunno. Scared.”

“I know, love,” Severus whispered, his throat threatening to close. “I know. We’ve hurt each other, but it’s alright. We’re learning, and it takes time.”

Harry hummed vaguely. “I think maybe I’m crazy.” 

“No,” Severus answered. “You’re not crazy. You’re a survivor, like I told you. Don’t you remember?”

“A survivor…” Harry repeated. “Like Severus Snape.”

“Yes, that’s right. We always make it, you and I. Always.”

“We do, don’t we?”

“We do.”

“Mm,” Harry murmured. “Sometimes I think it would be easier… the other way.”

“It would be,” Severus answered, blinking back a sudden and fierce prickle of heat. “The dead have nothing to fight for. But we do, and we don’t do things the easy way. We take the thicket, not the path, and always have, and that’s why we’re together now. We could have submitted to circumstance a hundred times, but we haven’t, and we won’t. All the people that tried to control us, and separate us, and beat us down, they’ve failed.” He tried to think of what else he might say, but he was tired, too. Desperately, desperately tired. What else could he say? “And… I’ve so many plans for your birthday. It's a matter of weeks, and by that time I’m sure I’ll have another reason-” He swallowed. “For you to stay.”

“I’m gonna stay.” Harry yawned and turned his head to the side, his damp eyelashes tickling Severus’ chest. “And tomorrow I’ll do better.”

“I hope that you do stay,” Severus whispered. “And all things considered, you did very well today.”

“That’s mad,” Harry answered. “Don’t… lie.” His voice was starting to blur, the consonants slurring in his fatigue, and Severus pressed a kiss to his temple, wondering when _he’d_ become the tearful one. He must have gone sixteen years without crying, and now look at him. But he supposed it wasn’t audible, and who could tell in the salted water, anyway?

“It’s the truth,” he said. “You were extraordinary. You controlled all that power for so long, even though it was hurting you. You protected me, and you protected the house, and Bill’s cottage, too. But we’ll keep practicing. It’ll get easier. I know it will.”

“Hey…” Harry sighed, and reached one wet hand back to brush the tears from Severus’ cheekbone. But he didn’t comment on them. He just smeared them between his fingers, mixing them with the bathwater. “Don’t look for them, ok?”

“Who?” Severus asked.

“You know who.”

Severus did know, and he tightened his arms. “I won’t.”

“Ok,” Harry said vaguely. “I don’t really… want to talk about this anymore.”

“You don’t have to.”

  
  
  


“I’m sleepy.”

  
  


“Then sleep.”


	11. An Empty Head

Draco could not sleep. In fact, Draco was pretty sure he would never sleep again, ever in his life. And that wasn’t theatrical bullshit, that was real. It might have been two years since he’d last managed a full night without some kind of extreme exhaustion - or alcohol - and out of a total of seventeen years and eleven months, two years was a very long time. Nearly forever. And though he supposed the circumstances surrounding his torturous, endless nights had improved somewhat, that didn’t change the fact that he spent the end of every day tossing and turning and fighting with his sheets. 

Back during the worst of it, he used to lie awake in the precarious silence of the Manor, or the darkness of the Slytherin dormitories, humiliated and hurting and afraid, and listening for anything out of place. A footstep, or a breath, or the creak of a door. He’d just lie there, hoping to drift off, and when he inevitably couldn’t, he’d occupy himself with his mental maintenance. Surrounded by the feeble protection of the heavy hangings, he would slow his breathing and turn inward the way Snape had taught him - submerging himself completely into the delicate art of Occlumency - building his barriers brick by brick, weaving his webs, and mapping the labyrinth of his lies into intricate, dizzying spirals, in the hopes of directing the Dark Lord away from the pit of loathing that consumed him. It was absorbing, and it took a lot of focus, and no matter how upset he’d been when he began, it would settle him down, and before he knew it, it would be morning. Just like that. And if he’d managed a few hours of rest before the sun came up, that was enough.

But now? Now he had nothing. There in Harry’s house, he had no lies left to cultivate, and no walls to erect around his memories. No Occlumency at all, and it had been a very long time indeed since he’d been at the mercy of his unbridled thoughts. His Aunty Bellatrix had started teaching him how to shield his mind at fourteen, after all. He’d been so young, and so very pleased, and so blissfully unaware that being trained in Occlumency at that age was a red flag the size of a mainsail. But it _had_ cut the misery. It really had, and he missed it more than he would have thought possible. With nothing to retreat behind, it was like he was naked. Starkers in a crowded room, or skinless under hot lights. Exposed, anyway, and he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to put himself back together until Snape was done taking his testimony. 

His _testimony,_ to be delivered straight to the Ministry.

Merlin, he wished Snape would just get it over with instead of making him wait that way, but he supposed Snape had been pretty busy. Giving interviews, and going to funerals, and absolutely losing his shit.

Which Severus Snape was definitely not supposed to do. He’d barely twitched when he’d killed Dumbledore, and he hadn’t twitched when he’d killed Rowle, and he’d seemed positively _pleased_ by the chance to get sprayed with the Dark Lord’s blood, but _five minutes_ with Harry gone? Panic. And he was not supposed to panic. That was what everyone else did. Everyone _else_ made irrational, insane, alarming decisions. Not _Snape._ Snape was composed. Controlled. Fiery, sometimes, sure, but only when he decided to be. Draco had seen him do it dozens of times - like a switch, turning him from an icy, aloof statue of a man into a fucking excecutioner. 

But obviously that was not how he behaved with Harry. Or else… Harry could get underneath it. 

A memory drifted to the forefront of Draco’s mind like a wisp of noxious smoke: Severus Snape, at ease in the straight-backed chairs of the Manor dining room beside the Dark Lord, absorbing the accusations of kindness without reaction. Unarmed, his hands perfectly relaxed on the armrests with his slave at his feet. Snape’s feet - his boots - shifting apart at the Dark Lord’s behest, leaving space for Draco to kneel between them. 

Like a whore.

Snape’s eyes had been opaque and quite calm when Draco looked up into them from the floor, and he remembered wondering if Snape was feeling anything at all. There had been no outward sign of fear, or distress, or hate, or anything else. But then Draco had touched him. Trying to seem familiar, he’d slid his palms up Snape’s thighs, and had felt them corded absolutely to stone. Radiating tension where the Dark Lord could not see.

Draco shivered and tugged his blankets up to his chin, trying to banish the image, but only succeeded in feeling smothered, and kicked them back off again.

He’d been pretty sure that his insomnia would abate at Number Twelve. He’d been pretty sure that living in a house with the two most powerful Wizards on earth (and his mother), would make him feel safe. Protected. Insulated from the outside world, and his mistakes alike. Sheltered, by the only people on earth that had ever actually sheltered him. But it wasn’t at all what he’d hoped for. He’d expected solidity. Stability. The fortitude and ruthless brilliance of his former Head of House, softened by Harry’s kindness. Because Harry was kind. Harry was forgiving, and generous, and compassionate, and -

_Suffering._

He’d had no illusions that it would be perfect, of course. Nothing was ever _perfect,_ and he’d been prepared to feel isolated and alone trapped in the house, and rejected and shunned by the other people in Harry’s life who were likely to view him as an intruder. He’d been braced to tolerate a lot of disturbing and confusing affection once he’d realized just what Harry and Snape’s relationship was like, and he’d been ready to accept that he would likely never go home. But he hadn’t been prepared for the fucking _chaos._

He’d thought _his_ life was chaotic. He’d thought _he_ was the one that needed help. But sweet Merlin, _everyone needed help,_ and that was not a very comfortable realization at all.

Snape was one thing. He was flawed. He could be violent, petty, cruel, and pedantic. People hated him, and people _feared him._ But Harry was a hero. Harry was the _Chosen One._ Harry had taunted the Dark Lord and given two fingers to death. He’d deflected the killing curse, and healed Draco’s broken arm with his hand, and had stolen him and his mother straight from the DMLE like he was the Minister of Magic himself. _That_ was who Harry was. Fearless, arrogant, funny, and in control. 

Harry was the sort of boy that stole golden eggs from dragons. He was not supposed to be damaged, or even _damageable,_ and Snape was certainly not supposed to be afraid. 

That was not how things were supposed to be. 

No. 

Draco punched at his pillow and turned restlessly onto his side, looking at his dragon where it was perched on his bedside table, meticulously grooming its wings. It had been doing that for a while, though Draco couldn’t see anything that needed to be cleaned, or tended to, or improved in any way. The little creature was perfect, and it had come out perfect, straight from Harry’s empty hands. 

“I think you’re clean,” Draco murmured, reaching out one finger, and at the sound of his voice, his dragon perked up, touched his fingertip with its nose, twitched its tail, and resumed picking nonexistent impurities off of its paper skin. 

He hoped the post-owl would come soon. He really did want to give his dragon a name, and that was something to think about, anyway. Something else to dilute the anxiety, since he couldn’t just bury it. His gift, from the Chosen One.

“You just sleep during the day, is that it?” he asked quietly, and got a sprinkle of confetti for it. “Maybe I should try that, too. We can wander around instead of laying here for eight hours. We probably aren’t supposed to go outside, but maybe we can look out the window, or go to the library and explore. I bet there are tons of old books in this house. Interesting ones, too. Oh, maybe I can find one no one cares about and rip the pages out for you. Would you like that?” The crest of horns on the back of its neck lifted, and Draco was pretty sure that was a pleased sort of gesture. Or possibly an aggressive one. It was hard to tell, and he abruptly wished he’d included that in his letter, which was already sealed with wax in his dresser drawer. Charlie Weasley would know how to tell if a dragon was pleased. Maybe he could ask in the next letter, if there was a next letter. 

Turning onto his back, he looked up at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he hadn’t heard anything up there for ages, which he thought was a little ominous. He’d been braced to cast a silencing charm from the moment he’d laid down, fearful of what he might hear, but there had been nothing but a few footsteps, and the creak of a floorboard. No thumps, and no counting, and no begging, or crying, or… any other noises, though Draco hadn’t the slightest idea which of those he’d been hoping for. 

Healing charms, maybe. Hearing that would have been a relief, though he didn’t think Harry or Snape needed incantations for that sort of thing. Harry could probably heal his own eyes just as easily as he’d healed Draco’s arm. He was probably already set to rights, and sleeping. 

Or… maybe he couldn’t heal his eyes and was stuck like that. Or maybe _they’d_ silenced the _floor._ That was a thought. Maybe all kinds of things were happening up there, and he just couldn’t hear it. Maybe Snape was angry with Harry for leaving, and was punishing him. 

Another memory that he’d painstakingly buried popped out like a nightmare jack-in-the-box. His back up against the wall. Snape’s fist in the front of his robes, right there in the corridor, where anyone might have seen. 

_‘You must think that if I had Potter, I was gentle. But I wasn’t. I made him scream.’_

_‘Harder,’_ Harry’d said. _‘Harder. Harder. Harder.’_

Merlin, maybe they _had_ silenced the floor. Maybe Snape had noticed that Draco’s bedroom was right beneath theirs, and realized Draco could _hear them._ Or worse - that Draco had heard Snape _weeping._ Merlin, he wouldn’t like that at all. 

Maybe Draco should ask Kreacher to move him to a different room. A different floor. Near his mother, maybe. Or the bloody _basement._ But then… that might tip his hand. If he moved, surely Snape would know immediately, if he didn’t already. He’d be furious, and Draco’s whole future hinged on keeping his favor, and by extension, Harry’s. It was critical. As critical as keeping the Dark Lord’s dismissive distaste had been.

Yes, it would be better to stay in place. Just stay where he was, and hope that whenever Snape finally did take his memories, he didn’t see Draco sitting paralyzed on his bed listening to Harry being taken absolutely apart. What a pathetic reason to be thrown to the wolves.

Or what if -

So it went all night. Draco, lying there, working himself up into a coiled spring of anxiety as the clock ticked and his dragon rustled and crinkled, remembering and imagining a thousand horrible things, and worrying about Harry, and himself, and his mother, and feeling generally petrified of every possible future, and generally awful for everything he’d ever done in his life.

All night. 

Well, maybe that was dramatic. He supposed he didn’t feel awful for _everything,_ just most things, and he was pretty sure he managed to doze off around four, though he did wake up again after what felt like mere moments in the middle of a very vivid nightmare about his teeth crunching to paste in his mouth. It was at that point that he’d very wisely decided it was no use, and he’d be better served just getting up. So that was what he did. He pulled on a jumper, scooped up his dragon, and crept out into the hall in search of caffeine.

It was still quite dark outside his bedroom door, and very quiet, and Draco was pretty sure he was the only one awake right up until he opened the kitchen door. For Kreacher was not only awake and alert, he was splattered with soap suds and in a state of manic scrubbing.

“Master Malfoy!” he gasped when he looked up to see Draco standing there, and erupted into a tea-making frenzy. _“Good Morning Master Malfoy Master Malfoy looks terrible here Kreacher is preparing tea does Master Malfoy take sugar Kreacher should know already apologies Master Malfoy is Master Potter awake has Master Malfoy seen him or is he still upstairs apologies Kreacher should respect Master Potter’s privacy Kreacher hopes Master Potter doesn’t mind Kreacher mending Master Potter’s lamp and windows perhaps Kreacher should have left them broken does Master Malfoy think Master Potter will be angry with Kreacher oh no how rude Master Potter is never angry Kreacher should know b-”_

Draco abandoned his tea and retreated, absolutely unable to deal with any of that, but his tea was not to be abandoned. It pursued him - a saucer, spoon, steaming mug, and handful of sugar cubes levitating in his wake like malevolent spirits.

“No no no no-” he hissed, fleeing to the parlor and scrambling back into the very corner of the sofa, sure right up until the last second that he was about to be scalded to within an inch of his life. But apparently Kreacher’s elf-magic was not compromised by his emotional state, and instead of dashing into his face, the mug settled onto the coffee table along with the place setting, and the sugar arranged itself into a neat, nonthreatening pyramid. 

“Well _good fucking morning,”_ Draco panted. “Hell. Is it too early to spike this, do you think?” His dragon twitched it’s crest, and exhaled a sprinkle of paper in the general direction of the tea. “Oh, fine. I suppose that would make me an alcoholic.” He sighed and warily dropped two cubes into the mug, and then, when it didn’t react, a third. He gave it a stir, feeling very out of sorts, but he supposed he should be grateful. He had his tea - even if he’d almost died for it - and he had his dragon, and eventually the sun would come up, and that meant he wouldn't have to go through another stretch of misery like that for a full day. 

He blew on his tea, dispersing the steam, and his dragon clambered up from his forearm to his shoulder and released another little spray of confetti.

“Hey, watch that,” Draco said, shielding the mug and wondering idly if dragons liked to be tall, or if they were just somehow offended by three sugars. Something else to ask a dragon expert, there. 

_Dear Charlie,_ he thought, taking a sip. _Do dragons like sugar? This one seems like it doesn’t, but maybe that’s just because it wants sugar packets, and we have sugar cubes. For the paper, you know. It just really enjoys paper._

Yes, that could go in the next letter, too, along with the horns question.

_Dear Charlie, If a dragon pokes its crest up at you, is that good? It seems good, but my dragon also puffs fire at me a lot, which would be bad if it was real fire. Is it trying to barbecue me, do you think?_

He leaned his head back onto the cushions, resting his eyes closed. They were stinging from lack of sleep, and he was sure they were red. He’d probably have to charm the shadows off, too. But later. 

_Dear Charlie,_ he thought. _Are dragons nocturnal? I’m not sleeping very much these days, and my dragon is awake at night a lot too, so I thought maybe… it’s nocturnal. Do your dragons stay up all night? Do you? I don’t think it suits me much, but I suppose it's something people get used to. Like everything else._

_Dear_ … _Charlie… What happened at your brother’s funeral? Harry went to visit, but he came back all wrong, and it scared me. Scared Snape, too. And… I’ve never seen that before. He was… It was… really…_

He fell into a stuporous doze, and it was some time later that a gentle clicking sound roused him. It was distant, vague through the haze, but there was a reason he wasn’t sleeping well, and he gasped and sat up straight.

 _Tak tak._

He twitched, looking around. Where was he? The parlor?

_Tak tak tak._

_Tak._

It sounded like it was coming from one of the windows, and he got up and drew back the shades. Which was a mistake. 

_“Fuck!”_ He jerked back, blinded, and clapped a hand over his eyes. He’d gotten his wish. It was definitely morning. Pity he wasn’t even remotely in the mood for _sunlight_ now that it was stabbing him directly in the corneas.

Muttering, he separated his fingers a tiny crack and peered through, and once his eyes had finally adjusted enough to make out anything at all in the outside world, he saw the source of the tapping. It was an owl. A large, handsome owl - nearly twice the size of the ones at school - with dark brown and cream feathers and intense yellow eyes, and it was gazing in at him with an unmistakable air of _open the window, idiot._ So Draco did, and it fluttered straight inside, perched on the coffee table, and briskly offered him a card tied to one taloned leg with twine. He reached for it, and his dragon bristled and started to flap threateningly. 

“Oh, stop it,” Draco said, patting his hair back down only for it to be ruffled right back up again. “Calm down. You’re made of paper, what’s an owl going to do to you? Use you as cage liner?” A cascade of shreds dusted the floor. “Ooh, more fire. Thank you. Very-” He yawned. “Intimidating. Let’s see.”

The cardstock was glossy and thick, and when Draco pulled it free he saw that it was embossed with a stamp of “AOE” above an exaggerated, owlish face. _‘Hello!’_ it read. _‘My name is Persephone, and I am a two-year-old Northern Hawk-Owl. Thank you for ordering from Arnaldo’s Owl Emporium, purveyor of the finest Post-Birds! See reverse side for breed details.’_

He turned the card over, and was informed in flowery prose that the Northern Hawk-Owl was an ideal breed for post, as they were most active during the day and uncommonly intelligent, and that Persephone liked a specific brand of Owl Treats (available at Arnaldo’s Owl Emporium), and preferred to be stroked on the crown of her head, and not on her back (or belly) (or feet).

“Huh,” Draco said. “Hello, Persephone.”

She made a little trilling noise and blinked at him, and he hesitantly stroked the spot the card had indicated. She seemed to enjoy it well enough. His dragon, however, did not enjoy it, and it flew up to his head, spreading its wings to their fullest extension like a sunning vulture.

It definitely liked to be tall. Taller than the new feathery interloper, at least. 

“Your master is still sleeping,” Draco said as Persephone eyed his dragon skeptically. “But I have a job for you. A few, actually. Care to make a delivery?” She ruffled her feathers in a resigned sort of way, and in short order she was out the window again, burdened with four scrolls: His Mother’s clothing form, a request for daily delivery of the Prophet, an order for Persephone’s treats, and Draco’s letter to Charlie, which he rather wanted to snatch back as soon as she’d departed. But it was too late. It was out of his hands, and his missives released into the wild, Draco set about becoming freshly very nervous, and he did not stop being nervous when his mother came downstairs and gently poked fun at him for being so nervous, or when Snape and Harry finally joined them for breakfast. 

Breakfast made it worse, really, because even though his mother had insisted that he’d overreacted the day before, he obviously hadn’t. Harry was uncharacteristically subdued - quiet, docile, and almost groggy, really - and Snape, in turn, was being unbearably tender with him. Clearly Draco had not overreacted, no matter what his mother said, though she had apparently been correct that whatever cataclysm had taken place, it had been _outside_ of Snape and Harry, and not between them, which was something, at least. 

Foolishly, Draco hoped throughout the meal that they might address it. That Snape or Harry might say _something_ about the shocking condition of Harry’s eyes - which were indeed restored to perfection - or the blood all over Snape’s face, or the acrid, burned smell, or _something,_ but they didn’t. They didn’t say a single fucking word about any of it, and Draco was left to try to divine meaning from the way Snape whispered in Harry’s ear, and poured his tea, and served him, and sat so close to him that they may as well have been sharing a single chair.

He did manage to overhear a bit of their quiet conversation as he picked at his own food, though. Just enough to glean that Snape had needed to coax - or possibly coerce - Harry down to breakfast, and that Harry would have preferred to stay in bed, but that Severus had not allowed it because Harry hadn’t eaten anything but ‘a bottle of scotch’ for dinner the night before. And that didn’t explain anything at all, but Draco didn’t say that. He just stirred his eggs around his plate, trying valiantly not to chatter just to fill the empty air. Annoyingly, his mother seemed perfectly happy to sit in the crushing silence. He supposed she was used to crushing silences at meals, but Draco wasn’t, and didn’t feel he ever would be, and when the dishes were cleared he could hold it in no longer.

“When are you going to take my memories?” he finally blurted, sure that if he didn’t say something he’d turn himself inside out with tension. But unfortunately for him, his timing was poor. Severus was mid-whisper when it came out, the tip of his nose in Harry’s hair, and when his eyes flicked over they were cold. 

“Pardon?” he asked, and Draco cringed inwardly. He hadn’t gotten a look like that in a while. He shouldn’t have spoken. 

“My - my memories,” he repeated. “We have to submit by the thirteenth, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s the ninth. Don’t you think you should…? I mean - sorry.”

“Missing the gentle touch of my magic, are you?” Severus hissed with icy insincerity, and Harry nudged him.

 _“Severus,”_ he whispered. It sounded like an admonishment, and Draco looked at his dragon where it was perched by his elbow, embarrassed in about seven different ways.

“I just don’t like having my barriers down,” he said. “I was hoping after you were done I could put some back up. To… you know… soften the…” Snape and his mother both frowned at him, and he stopped. 

“You are aware that walling off memories isn’t a permanent solution,” Severus said, and though Draco almost retorted, he managed to withhold it and said nothing. It seemed his self-preservation instinct was still at least moderately intact. “I was intending to extract from your mother first,” Severus continued after a moment. “As her pertinent memories are likely more limited in scope, but… I suppose I could begin with you, if you prefer.” He turned to address Narcissa. “Do you mind? I might be able to get to you this evening if it goes smoothly.”

“Take your time,” she answered. “I’ve no great trouble having an empty head.”

“Very well. We’ll begin in a few hours, then. In the library.”

“We can’t do it now?” Draco asked.

“I suppose we could…” Severus drawled. “But I’d prefer you to digest your food first. No need to add to Kreacher’s workload.”

Draco’s stomach contracted around the little he’d eaten. “Oh,” he said. “Of course not.”

Harry yawned and put his head on Severus’ shoulder. “What about mine?” he asked. 

“What, your testimony?” Severus asked back. 

“Mmhm.”

“Today I’m hoping you will do nothing at all. Tomorrow too, if I’ve any say.” Harry hummed noncommittally, and Severus directed his attention back to Draco and Narcissa. “Do let me know when the Post-Owl arrives, will you? I’ve some correspondence to take care of.”

“It came this morning, actually,” Draco answered. “I sent it out with some letters already. Her, I mean. Her name is Persephone.” 

“Pretty,” Harry murmured.

“Are you-” Draco qualed as Severus glared at him, and his mother touched his knee under the table. “Sorry. About the owl. I - suppose I should have waited, since she’s yours. Harry’s, I mean. Um. Sorry. I just thought… Harry wanted the Prophet, so… I ordered it.” 

“I do want the Prophet,” Harry said. “Gotta see if they deserve to live.”

“... right,” Draco said. “And I sent for my mother’s clothes. Owl treats, too. For… the owl.” _Salazar on his throne, be quiet._

“How helpful,” Severus said coolly. “Is that what was so urgent? Treats?” 

Draco blushed and looked into his lap. “Well… I answered my letter. I… had a question about… my dragon.”

“I’m sure you did.” Severus glanced at said magical companion, which was eyeing Draco’s napkin with intense interest like it was struggling with the concept of fabric. “Well, I suppose I’ll occupy myself with my own memories while I wait for her return. I daresay I shall have the most to submit.” 

“A veritable library, I’m sure,” Narcissa chuckled. “Maybe the Wizengamot will just give up when they see you’ve prepared a crate.”

“Gonna take a long time?” Harry asked. 

“Oh, a while,” Severus answered, his expression softening. “Care to join me?” He drew a knuckle down Harry’s cheek and under the edge of his jaw, and the hairs on the back of Draco’s neck prickled unpleasantly. “Though I must warn you, it doesn’t look like much from the outside. Quite dull, really.”

They disbanded. Draco, back to his bedroom to berate himself in private, Narcissa to have a soak and do something to her fingernails - Severus hadn’t been listening - and Harry and Severus upstairs. 

Draco was quite right in suggesting that they should get a move on assembling their testimony, Severus knew, even if he had been annoying about it. The days were dwindling, and there would likely be gaps that would need to be filled by others. It might take time to track them down, and he wouldn’t know what he needed until he knew what he had. That, and he was hoping if he did something very boring, Harry might fall asleep again. Now that he’d eaten, that would be for the best.

“This isn’t one of those things where it won’t work if you can see me?” Harry asked, trailing after him into the library. 

“No, this is not one of ‘those things,’” Severus answered, and transfigured a pair of antique armchairs into a sofa. Overstuffed, the way Harry preferred. “I couldn’t have you in my field of vision before the hearing because I was trying to hide _you._ And I don’t plan on doing that ever again, though I will ask you not to speak once I begin.”

“Ok,” Harry answered as Severus sat himself on one end of the sofa and _accio’d_ a side-table. “Quiet like a church mouse. Mind if I lie down?”

“Please do.” Severus patted his thigh and summoned four dozen bottles out of the ether.

“That many, huh?” Harry asked, settling down and pillowing his head where Severus had indicated. His eyes were a little glassy already, and looking at him, Severus sent up a silent prayer to the gods of insomnia that he’d pass right out the way he had the night before. A full night’s sleep was rare, and to be treasured, but it wasn’t enough, and as Severus hadn’t any idea how much magic Harry had expended at Shell Cottage - _‘I was pretty upset,’_ was all Harry’d said about it, and who knew what in Merlin’s name that meant when it was Harry saying it - he was going to err on the side of _more rest._ He might have even dosed him with Dreamless Sleep if he’d had any to hand.

“We shall see how many I fill today,” Severus answered, giving Harry’s mussed hair a ruffle. “Hush now, church mouse. I have to focus.” 

Despite the fact that memory extraction really was not interesting at all from outside the Occlumens, Harry made quite a valiant effort at staying awake to watch him do it, and Severus was peripherally aware of his eyelids getting heavier and heavier in between each foray into his mind until they closed entirely. It took about twenty minutes, and once Harry’d fallen asleep, Severus took care to sit very still as he pressed onward, rifling through his past and calling up memory after memory, drawing out anything he thought might be useful. He tugged the silvery stuff free in individual strands, carefully depositing each one into a separate bottle and labeling them with things like _‘Snape, Severus: Draco Malfoy offered as a slave,’ ‘Snape, Severus: Narcissa Malfoy begs for aid (unbreakable vow)’ ‘Snape, Severus: Draco Malfoy violated by S. Snape at behest of Dark Lord; implied threat of death,’_ and _‘Snape, Severus: Draco Malfoy in distress #4, threatens suicide.’_ It took a good long while, and just as he was tapping his twenty-seventh bottle, labeling it _‘Snape, Severus: Dark Lord turns on Lucius Malfoy, confiscates wand,’_ there was a gentle rapping on the lintel.

“Professor Snape?” Draco asked, but then stopped short. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“Mm?” Harry murmured, shifting on Severus’ lap and turning his face away from the light. “S’matter?”

Severus laid a hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s nothing,” he said quietly. “Just Draco.” Then he raised his voice. “Is it time already?”

“It’s, um, quarter of one,” Draco said, lingering in the doorway. “I didn’t know Harry was… sleeping. I can come back later.”

“M’not sleeping,” Harry said drunkenly, laboriously moving to sit up, his hair wild on one side and flat on the other. “M’just…” His eyes registered the rows of full bottles lined neatly on the little table. “Oh. What time is it?”

“Nearly one o’clock,” Severus supplied, and Harry rubbed his eyes.

“One,” he mumbled. “My stupid magic. Ugh. Jeez, I’m thirsty.”

_CRACK!_

“MASTER POTTER HAS A REQUEST?” 

Harry and Draco both shrieked, and Harry’s elbow knocked into the table-leg, sending twenty-seven little glass bottles clattering in all directions. 

“Fuck!” Harry yelped, lunging onto the floor and flicking his hands open, freezing the samples in place even where over a dozen were half-way to smashing on the floor. 

“Apologies!” Kreacher squealed, clutching his ears. “Apologies Masters! Apologies!” He slammed his face into the floor. “Apologies!” BANG.

“Kreacher!” Severus barked. “NO. You’ve had a direct order! No punishing, and certainly no _concussing yourself._ Stop that at once and get a pitcher of water! Merlin.” He gathered the suspended bottles back into order with a flick of his wand.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “Almost ruined all that work.”

“No harm done,” Severus answered, sweeping his hair back from his face. “I take it you’re awake now.”

“Yeah, pretty awake.” Harry looked up at Draco from the floor. “Hi.”

  
  



	12. Soldier, Watch, Sock, Parchment

“Oh,” Draco said, still clutching his heart. “Hello.” He chuckled weakly. “House-Elves.”

“Yeah, they do that,” Harry said from down on the floor. “Sneaky when they want to be, though.” Kreacher proved it almost immediately when he reappeared in the doorway with a much more restrained popping sound, and bowed his head beneath the tray he was bearing. It was laden with a number of glasses and, though Severus had bade him bring water, three separate pitchers. One was orange, one clear, and one filled with a relatively unappetizing-looking murky yellow liquid.

“Pumpkin juice, water, and brown-sugar lemonade, if it pleases Masters,” Kreacher said in a quivering voice. “Kreacher did not mean to startle Masters, so sorry. Kreacher is so clumsy.” His right arm tensed and then relaxed. “So sorry, Masters.”

“You’re not clumsy, Kreacher,” Harry answered, getting to his feet. “We’re just jumpy. Not your fault. Thanks.” He poured himself a glass of water and downed it in one long pull, wiped his mouth, and then stretched extravagantly, reaching towards the ceiling and arching his back, flexing his fingers and toes and then relaxing with a sigh. “Well,” he said. “I feel a little better.”

“Nothing like a minor heart-attack to get the blood pumping,” Severus answered, narrowing his eyes as Draco very pointedly averted his own.

“Yeah,” Harry laughed and looked between them. “I’m probably not supposed to watch this one, right?”

“No, I shouldn’t think so,” Severus answered. “Twice as many people to distract. And we wouldn’t want to make Draco uncomfortable.”

“No, of course not,” Harry said, leaning over to kiss Severus on the cheek. “I’ll leave you to it. Come get me when you’re done, alright?” He straightened up and turned towards the door, but Severus caught his hand.

“Where will you go?”

“Just upstairs,” Harry answered. “I think I might go into my magic for a while. Practice a bit, or just walk around.”

“As you wish.” Severus pressed a kiss to his knuckles and met his eyes. “But don’t get lost this time, hm?” he asked. “I can’t go in after you.”

“Just shine a light in my face and I’ll pop right back out,” Harry answered with a half smile, and then turned his smile on Draco, who had not been even remotely following that exchange and was visibly caught off-guard by being addressed. “Good luck. Don’t let him go too hard on you.”

“Oh,” Draco answered, returning Harry’s smile uncertainly. “Thanks. He doesn’t really listen to me, though. Head of House, you know.” 

“Headmaster, too,” Harry agreed, and nudged Severus’ boot with one foot. “Retired, though.”

“Yes, I certainly am,” Severus answered. “Retired from all things.”

Draco watched Harry pad out of the room, treading on the overlong cuffs of his tartan pajama pants. Sock feet. Plaid. Worn t-shirt. Quite different from the Hogwarts student uniforms, and very different from the high-necked finery he’d worn to the Weasley funeral. But those had been Snape’s clothes, hadn’t they? “He does seem like he feels better,” Draco said, and then in a moment of absolute idiocy: “Does he always dress that way? It’s so…” He looked over at Snape, saw that he was glowering, and snapped his mouth shut, abruptly unsure how he was even planning on finishing that sentence. 

“Yes,” Severus answered. “He was raised by wolves, and wolves wear nightclothes all day. Do sit.” He gestured to the armchair directly across from him and crossed his legs. “You’re quite sure your barriers are down? I’d hate to injure you at this late stage.”

“They’re down,” Draco answered, wondering what he’d done to merit such scorn and trying to keep the thought,  _ ‘I heard you through the ceiling,’  _ out of his brain. And when Kreacher offered the tray one more time, he poured himself a glass of the odd lemonade and took a tentative sip just to do something with his hands. It was much better than it looked, and he said so, but Severus declined with a twitch of one finger. 

“And where’s your pet?” he asked. 

“I left it in my room.” Draco set down his glass, watching Snape arrange his remaining empty bottles in a fastidious line. “I thought it might get in the way.”

“Wise.” 

Severus unsealed the first one. It reminded Draco of the blood-sample vials at St. Mungos, and he folded his hands and then unfolded them, unsettled and already wishing he hadn’t asked to go first. Although he supposed Charlie had gone first. 

He wondered how that went.

Maybe he could ask.

“So,” he began nervously. “How does this work?”

“You know perfectly well how it works,” Severus answered. “All you need do is nothing. I’m after the truth, so there’s nothing to hide. No path to light, and no misdirections to set. When I name the memory, recall it as best you can, and I will extract it in whatever condition you provide.”

“That’s it?” Draco asked, and swallowed. “You’re not just going to… dig around?”

Severus sat back a little, tapping his wand on his thigh. He looked irritated, and Draco braced himself. “And risk stumbling upon your intense and deeply humiliating crush on my devoted partner?” Severus asked with a little  _ tsk.  _ “Hardly.”

Draco went cold, fighting the urge to look at the door Harry had left through, and then bore down and summoned a sneer from what felt like the depths of his soul. If Snape wanted to upset him, he’d have to work for it. For it to be  _ visible, _ anyway. 

“And here I thought I had an intense and deeply humiliating crush on  _ you,”  _ he said flatly. “My mistake,  _ Headmaster.  _ I suppose laying my life in your hands was confusing for me.”

Severus just looked at him steadily for a few very uncomfortable seconds, and then nodded. “Good to know you still have some fire,” he said. “You’ll need it for the Wizengamot.” He held his wand aloft. “Let’s begin with something simple. Releasing Harry and Ron from your cellar. I’ve seen it already, as you know.”

_ Fire, _ Draco thought.  _ He wants fire. _

“So has your toilet,” he shot back, and then looked into Snape’s eyes. It was no easier now than it had ever been, but he’d had that man stirring up his secrets dozens of times, and he just had to trust that he meant it when he said he wouldn’t dig. 

And Draco did trust him.

He did. 

Sort of. 

***

Upstairs, Harry was not planning on going into his magic right away, no matter what he’d said. He had a bit of an idea he wanted to explore first, and with Severus occupied with Draco, it seemed as good a time as any to see if his  _ intuitive genius _ or whatever was actually real. The idea had come to him sometime in the night, or in the early morning, and it had been sort of shimmering in his brain when Severus woke him up with a kiss on the forehead and a whispered,  _ ‘good morning, love. How are you feeling?’  _

Just then it had been pretty vague. He’d been way too tired for his brain to produce anything even remotely coherent - other than a really strong feeling of wishing Severus would let him stay in bed for about a hundred more years - but now that he’d eaten some and slept another few hours, his head was clearer, and so was his idea. So he collected a few things from his bedroom, digging around in the drawers Kreacher had attempted to organize for him, and then went into the master bath and closed the door. He folded a towel from one of the pegs into a cushion, and settled himself cross-legged in front of the mirror. Then he laid out his collection on the floor. 

First, the little toy soldier Severus had rescued from his cupboard. It didn’t balance on its feet anymore, so he laid it on its back. Second, Fabian Prewett’s watch, glinting in the lamplight. Third, a green sock decorated with golden snitches, and finally, a little scrap of blood-stained parchment bearing the single word,  _ ‘live.’  _ He arranged them neatly in a row, mindful not to examine anything too carefully just yet, and then looked at his reflection, wondering if it was stupid to do this without discussing it with Severus first. 

He didn’t think so, though. It wasn’t just some mad dream, or bizarre leap of faith. He’d learned a lot about his magic over the last two weeks - a lot more than Severus himself had - and he was starting to feel some edges. Not limits, exactly, just… edges. On one side, there was withdrawing so forcefully that he sucked his brain inside with his magic, like he’d apparently done during the service. On the other side, there was failing so spectacularly that he got blood all over everything, turned into a fireball in Bill’s yard, and gave a bunch of stoic Slytherins heart failure. 

Those were his edges, and neither of them were good. But he figured there should be something in between. A middle ground, or a compromise. That was how things worked, and on top of his personal ideas about his own powers, Severus had practically told him so. He’d said it in a few different ways, actually. First, he’d said it pressed up against Harry’s back, holding him to the bed, trying to reassure him that what was about to happen wasn’t patently deadly:

_ ‘Harry, love, your nose is bleeding. I think you should let it out.’ _

That was what he’d said. Harry’d heard it clearly, even through the roaring in his ears. Harry had heard the words, and Harry had heard what he meant by them, too: 

_ Let it out before it bursts out.  _

Before it  _ tears you open to get out.  _

That was what Severus had meant, and after Harry had gotten himself together and come home, Severus had told him in another way. Severus had told him that he looked like he’d been held under the  _ cruciatus  _ because of his gross bloody eyes, and that the  _ cruciatus  _ caused gross bloody eyes because seizing under the curse put too much pressure on your body. It caused more pain than a person could hold, the way there was too much magic in Harry’s human body for  _ it _ to hold. The way his fragile, mortal self struggled to contain the magnitude of his power, giving way in tender places, forcing blood out of his nose, and into his eyes, and into his brain. Like his magic was filling him up from some outside source, and would rip him to pieces to get out into the world. 

And that was just how it had felt, too. 

Pressure. 

Bursting.

_ Tearing. _

Not like that first time, when his magic had hurt him pouring out. No, not like that at all. Out there in the sand at Shell Cottage he’d felt  _ better _ once it had come out. No doubling in his vision, and no more bleeding, and no more fainting. So clearly he’d moved past being hurt by his magic coming out of him. He only hurt other people like that now. The dangerous thing for Harry was to try to hold it in. No matter that Severus had assured him in the blurry, soft edges of sleep that they would keep trying, keep fighting, and that it would eventually work. It was already working as well as it ever would, Harry was sure. Severus was just wrong. He was wrong, because he hadn’t felt what Harry’d felt, crushed between his weight and the mattress. Severus had not felt the absolute inevitability of his failure - the critical faultline in Harry’s spirit or body or mind - and Severus had not felt the  _ leaks. _ It had not been controllable. Like a lake of magma searching for a weak point in the earth’s crust, it could not be told  _ no.  _ It could not be calmed, and it could not be stoppered. You couldn’t just put a cork in a volcano. It would find another way to erupt; another way out, no matter what. And Harry wasn’t about to sit on his laurels now that he knew that.

So, what did you do when there was too much pressure? If, for example, you had a shaken bottle of pumpkin fizz that you still wanted to drink? You didn’t just open it and let it geyser out all over the floor. That would waste it. Instead, you let some of the foam out a little bit at a time. You  _ vented the pressure. _ And that was all Harry was, really. A shaken bottle of pumpkin fizz. A volcano. A fragile, human self, trying to hold the magic of a God.

It wasn’t sustainable, and it wasn’t safe, and just because Harry had no desire to think about, or remember, or feel any of the things associated with the objects he’d collected, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to work on it. He  _ was _ going to work on it, and he would continue to work on it until he figured it out, or until he felt at least relatively sure he wouldn’t kill the love of his life in a fit of pique, or incinerate the entire Wizemgamot during the trials. For though they had not spoken of that specifically, Harry knew that was the next looming threat. He was going to have to speak, and listen to, and watch many horrible things, and if he was going to do that, he had to  _ know _ that he could take it. 

He would not make the same mistake twice, and Severus had taught him that it was important to test himself in a controlled environment before waltzing out into the world, which was why he was in the bathroom. 

He put a fresh shield around himself, relatively confident now that he knew the bubble of light would still contain him even if he well and truly lost control, and looked down at his artifacts, considering. The soldier, the watch, the sock, and the note. Abuse, grief, failure and betrayal. The four horsemen of his own personal apocalypse. 

He chose the soldier, first. The Dursleys were on his mind - the memories felt fresh and sharp after what Severus had done to Number Four - and he turned the one-armed man over in his hands, studying his featureless, plastic face. And then he took a deep breath, and set about upsetting himself. 

He dragged the memory of that Christmas from the trough of his childhood like drawing a corpse from the bottom of a lake. It had been his seventh Christmas at the Dursley’s, and he’d spent it watching Dudley open a mountain of gifts so high it obscured the tree. Trainers, and new clothes, and remote-controlled cars. Televisions, video-games, action figures, and great, beribboned jars of sweets. And Uncle Vernon had dropped the little soldier at Harry’s feet with no wrapping, no stocking, not so much as a bow of twine. The figure’s arm - his sword arm - had already been broken off, but his serious little face had still been just visible. The indentation of a frown, and the barest suggestion of eyebrows below the jaunty helmet.

_ ‘Merry Christmas, boy,’  _ Uncle Vernon had said. 

_ Boy.  _

Uncle Vernon had always called him  _ boy.  _

_ ‘Hey, that’s mine!’ _

_ ‘Oh, Diddykins, we got you a new one! A whole set, didn’t you see?’ _

It really did feel like a fizz inside him, at first. Like his blood was carbonated, ready to froth out the top of his head and pour out all over the tiles.

He hadn’t said thank you, he remembered that vividly. Uncle Vernon had almost dislocated his shoulder hurling him into the cupboard when he hadn’t said  _ thank you _ .

_ ‘You nasty little brat! You dare disrespect your Aunt that way? After everything we’ve done for you? Stop - STRUGGLING!’  _

_ SLAM! _

They’d kept him in there for nine days. He hadn’t been let out for school, because there had been no school, because it was Christmas Hols. No one at all noticed he was missing. No one knew he was locked under the stairs, fed on bread and water and allowed two bathroom breaks per day. Not that anyone at his muggle school would have cared. They all thought he was a-

_ Freak. _

The pain ignited beneath his breastbone, and he clapped his hand over the spot by reflex. But that was wrong. He wasn’t going to try to hold it in. He didn’t have to, and if his idea was bad, the shield would protect the house.

_ Vent it,  _ he thought.  _ Tiny bit. Like a fizzy drink. _

Tearing his hand away from his own body, he pointed his palm at the floor by his side, imagining a cap on his magic. A screw-top. 

_ Ease it open. One turn. Just a crack. _

Immediately, a wild tangle of electricity danced between his fingers and the base of his shield, crackled around the perimeter, and straight back to his hand. It stung badly, like being snapped with a burning bit of wire, but the scalding center of his chest eased just enough to stop being identifiable as pain. 

He stayed still for a long moment, listening, afraid to open his eyes. But there was no tinkle of broken glass to be heard, and realizing he was holding his breath, he exhaled, gathered his courage, and looked around. 

His palm was red, and his hair was standing on end, but he was ok, and so was the room. No crack down the center of the mirror, or bits of tiles raining from the walls. Everything was fine, and that was - 

“Better,” he told his reflection, and set the little man aside to take up the watch. 

Better than he’d expected, anyway. 

***

Draco put his head down between his knees, breathing hard. “Do you - really - need to show them that?” he gasped, spots swimming in his vision.

“The purpose is to make it clear how much you’ve been victimized, Draco. Sympathy. So yes, I do. Sit up.”

“I’m going to be sick.”

“No, you aren’t. Your barriers are cleared. Sit up.”

“My  _ barriers,”  _ Draco spat towards the floor. “Are you telling me that only violating Occlumency makes people  _ sick?  _ Harry doesn’t even do Occlumency. Are you telling me  _ he _ never gets sick?” 

He might even faint. The edges of the room were dark, and when Severus did not retort right away, he used the silence to focus on his breathing, trying to slow it before he hyperventilated himself right into hypoxia. His skin felt too tight on his body, too; clammy and sticky and cold, like he’d only just retreated to the servant’s quarters. Like adrenaline was still gushing into his bloodstream, and his father was unconscious, and his mother was gone somewhere, and he was alone. Alone in a house full of  _ jackals. _

_ He’s dead. He’s dead, and you saw him die, and it’s over it’s done it’s over. _

“I’ve seen Harry that way once,” Severus said. “When he cast  _ sectumsempra  _ on you.”

That startled Draco into looking up, triggering a wave of queasy vertigo. 

“He… what?”

“Oh, yes,” Severus answered evenly. “He came quite unglued. Vomiting, shivering, scratching off his own skin. He called me, you know. The moment it happened he called me to save you.  _ ‘I did something to Malfoy. He’s bleeding. Please come.’ _ That was what he said. He hates inflicting violence on others. It hurts him, though I think maybe you didn’t know that.” He glanced at the door. “In some ways he’s quite delicate, and I’d like to check on him soon. So if you don’t mind…” He turned back. “Might we press onward?”

Draco wiped his forehead, struggling to absorb the image of Harry so distraught over wounding him that he’d tried to  _ scratch off his own skin. _ “Yeah,” he said shakily. “Sorry. Just… can we take a break from Rowle? For… a bit.”

“Fine,” Severus answered. “You told me there was a fire. That Harry saved you.”

“I… yes. He did.”

“Call it up.”

The memory of the skirmish in the _‘Room of Hidden Things,’_ as Draco called Harry’s _‘Room of Requirement,’_ was the least usable memory so far. It was muddied, fractured - the colors smeared with terror and the timeline distorted - but Severus got some salvageable bits out of it. Enough to show that Draco had absolutely turned on his former friends for Harry, and that he’d saved Hermione’s life at least once, and been injured in the act. He’d been punched in the stomach and kicked in the ribs, and then, when he tried to deflect a _crucio_ away from Harry, kicked right in the face. It was just at that moment that things became harder to follow, in fact, and Severus wondered if Draco might not have been suffering from an undiagnosed head-injury during the bulk of the battle. With the weight behind Vincent Crabbe’s shoe, it seemed incredible that he hadn’t been knocked unconscious entirely, and Severus set aside a very splintered image of Harry pushing Draco behind him, took a mental note to try for parallel memories from Ron and Hermione, and labeled the sample, _‘Malfoy, Draco: betrays junior Deatheaters, locates Horcrux #5 with Harry Potter, et al,’_ wondering how Draco had gotten out alive. For though Draco had already told him that Harry rescued him from the fire, that section was garbled beyond understanding, giving him nothing more than a general impression of orange, red, grey, and the sensations of heat and choking.

What  _ was _ clear, was that Draco could have died easily, and as Severus sealed the sample, he resolved to keep that in mind. Draco risked his life for Harry. Draco  _ cared  _ about Harry - in his own desperate way - and Harry cared about Draco, and so Draco was to be protected, no matter how irksome he became. No matter that, when Severus and Harry had returned together, Draco had tried to ask,  _ ‘what did you do to him?’ _

He was confused, that was all. Confused, and frightened, and vulnerable. Still a boy in so many ways, despite all he’d been through, and to him, Harry was an impossible ideal. A judge, and savior, and idol, and a hundred other things, all of them wrong. It was sad, really, and with a glimmer of insight, Severus imagined what it might mean to the pureblood prince in front of him to have Harry asleep on  _ his  _ lap. To have his trust in that way, even for a moment. 

Sad. Almost tragic.

“You’re doing very well,” Severus said. “Can you show me how you sent for reinforcements? I told you to run, but you didn’t.”

“I did run,” Draco answered weakly. “I just… ran to Hogsmeade.”

“Show me.”

Draco tried very hard, but as it turned out, he simply couldn’t bring up the memory. He knew generally where he’d gone, and could recall arriving in Hogsmeade at a sprint and calling out for help, but then there was a brief burst of white, and a solid, impenetrable block of black. The only thing Severus could recover from the depths of whatever had happened was a single swimming image of the Three Broomsticks with all its windows blown out, and that was absolutely it. Running. Calling. Black. Tavern. Black. 

Severus put Madame Rosmerta on his list of people to contact. Ron, Hermione, Rosmerta, Lee Jordan… he hoped the owl returned before morning. 

“I really think I need a break,” Draco said, dropping his face back into his hands. “Can I have - I dunno. Fifteen minutes?”

“We’re almost finished,” Severus answered, sliding  _ ‘Malfoy, Draco: flight to Hogsmeade (incomplete)’  _ away from the edge of the table to rest with the others. “Almost through.” Draco’s hands tightened alarmingly around his skull. “Draco,” Severus continued. “Look at me. No more after this, alright?” He reached out and tipped Draco’s chin up with two fingers, and immediately got a flash of intense, concentrated emotion, like an iron nail right in the eye. He jerked his hand back, and Draco covered his face again, mortified.

“Sorry,” he said miserably. 

“It’s alright,” Severus answered, looking away. He had no desire to pick up anything else unintentional out of that very mixed-up blonde head. There was a lot in there, and it wasn’t just Harry. Not even remotely. “This is quite a lot of Legilimency to be endured all at once. A little weakness is nothing to be ashamed of.” He cleared his throat. “Are you sleeping?”

“What?”

“Are you sleeping at night?”

“Not really.”

“I can tell. I’ll send for something to help you. I should set up a potions lab, in any case. Now, I just need more of your father, and you can go. What do you have?”

“My father?” Draco’s fingers slid into his hair with a whine of true distress, but he choked it off before it could be completed, his expression folding up like he thought he might not be supposed to make any  _ noises,  _ even now. Like what Severus was doing to him was just the same as clawing raw streaks into his back, and he just had to take it. “Why?” Draco asked. “Why do you need that? He’s dead. And he was - he’s dead.”

“Duress,” Severus answered patiently, knowing intimately all the things Lucius Malfoy  _ was. _ “These people will not look kindly on you, Draco, and if I’m going to keep you out of prison, it has to be clear that you had no choice.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Draco whispered.

“I know that,” Severus answered. “But my word is not enough. We have to show it.”

Draco huffed out a breath, nodded, and sat himself up straight, casting his eyes towards the ceiling. “Alright,” he said. “Alright. Um…” He blinked hard, shaking his head once like there was a fly in his ear. “Rowle hit him. Knocked out his teeth when he tried to - to - protect me. I fixed it, after. He was drunk.” His voice wavered, and he pressed his trembling, white fingertips into his eyes. “Is that good? Is that duress?”

Watching him do that, Severus was reminded so forcefully of the boy groveling outside his bedroom in Malfoy Manor that his skin crawled. Merlin, he wanted to stop. To let Draco retreat, and rest, and take a shower, and crawl under the blankets on his bed for a while. But it would be worse to do this to him twice, Severus was sure. He had to get it all out at once, like extracting an infected tooth. You didn’t leave fragments for later, did you? No, you just tore it all out, cleaned the wound, and then let it alone. And if Draco wanted to wallpaper over his pain the moment he left, that was his choice to make. 

“Yes,” Severus said. “That is duress. Last one. Open your eyes.” Draco obeyed, his gaze liquid and his face waxen. 

_ Close your eyes,  _ Severus had said.  _ One more. Deep breath, now.  _

Lord in Heaven, to be free of this. The day Severus never had to wade into human misery again would be a great day, indeed. And maybe he was close to that day. He might be. Or maybe the wheel of time would somehow hurl him right back into despicable violence, the way it always had before. There was no way to know. There was only the day in front of him, the person in front of him, and the suffering in front of him. 

He looked into Draco’s eyes. Not through them, but into them. “Draco,” he said. “I will never do this to you again. Do you understand me? Never again. _Legilimens.”_

_ ‘Malfoy, Draco: Assaulted by Thorfin Rowle, father injured intervening.’ _

***

“Mum,” Ginny called out as the owl fluttered down to the flower box outside the living room window. “There’s some post outside. Can I let it in, or are we still supposed to be screening?”

“What does it look like?” Mrs. Weasley called back from the kitchen, where she’d submerged herself in baking for far more people than were at home, and possibly more people than had ever stayed at the Burrow at one time. 

“I dunno, it's an owl,” Ginny called back. “It’s only got a scroll.”

“Go on and let it in, then, dear. Just don’t tell your father.”

Ginny pulled open the windows and the owl flapped inside, looking harassed. “You seem tired,” she said. “Here.” She rustled a canister of treats from the cabinet, and offered the bird a handful. They were Pigwidegeon’s favorites, but she did not seem impressed, and Ginny was struck with an odd premonition that that owl belonged to a snooty socialite of some kind. But she untied the scroll all the same, only to see that it was addressed to ‘C. Weasley.’ And there was only one of those at the Burrow.

“Hey, Charlie?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANNOUNCEMENT: V IMPORTANT
> 
> I am literally elated to report that 221BasketCase is embarking on the incredible journey of recording Pacify as a podfic (holy shit, right??), and will have a teaser for it next week. I have listened to the first three chapters and I actually screamed. So hold on to your BUTTS for that. 
> 
> Pacify Discord if you wanna scream about it: https://discord.gg/Gg59qfh


	13. Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Bottom Notes for PACIFY PODFIC TEASER by 221BasketCase

Charlie practically sprinted out behind the chicken coop once he’d snatched the letter, ignoring his mother’s questions and his sister’s entreaties to see what it was, and unfurled it with abruptly sweating hands. He was absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure it was going to be a hard rejection, or from Snape. A hard rejection from Snape, maybe. Or some more veiled threats. He was so sure of what it _would be,_ in fact, that it took him a moment to realize what it actually _was._ For it was not a rejection, and it was not written in the spidery, condescending handwriting that had splattered even Charlie’s best potions essays. The cursive was neat, and fine, and narrow, and, at the bottom, it was signed, _Draco._ But more than that, it was about dragons, and Lord Almighty, that was being tossed a bone if anything on earth was. A dragon question. Fucking _thank God._

He skipped back up to the top. 

_Charlie,_ he read.

_No harm done. I was just a bit surprised, as I wasn’t aware anyone else knew I was here. But I have a professional question if you don’t mind, and if there’s a fee I’ll be sure to take care of it when I regain access to my vault. After you and your brother left, Harry conjured a Hungarian Horntail out of folded paper and gave it to me, and before you ask, no I don’t know how. But it follows me around, and it made a nest in some of my old school papers, so it seems like it’s here to stay. It’s quite friendly, too, and I’d like to give it a name. The trouble is, I don’t know if it’s a girl or a boy, or how to tell, or if that even matters. Seems like the sort of thing a dragon trainer might be able to help me with. If you have the time, of course._

_-Draco_

_P.s. I’m quite partial to pear drops and white chocolate, though the latter is, I understand, also considered offensive in some circles. Not as offensive as Salmiak, of course, but then we can’t all be intrepid adventurers._

Charlie read the letter through three times before managing to fully absorb the contents beyond ‘dragon,’ and ‘girl or boy.’ And when he did, he was rather confused. But he hadn’t been told to fuck off, and he knew how to sex Hungarian Horntails - even if they were apparently made of paper - and Draco liked pear drops and white chocolate, and they had both of those things at the confectioners in town. And what a beautiful day it suddenly was.

“Who’s it from?” Ginny asked, poking her head around the edge of the coup and startling a roosting hen. “Aw, look, you’re all sweaty. Malfoy, right? Fit bastard.”

Charlie just rolled the scroll back up and stuck it in his back pocket. “Care to go to the sweet shop with me?” he asked.

“Sure,” she answered, and sidled over to give him a little elbow in the ribs. “And if you buy me a bag of chocolate cherries I won’t tell _anyone_ you’re all _sweaty_ for _Malfoy.”_ She snatched the letter and spun away. 

_“Oi!”_

_“White chocolate?”_ she cackled. “Ew! That’s _so_ \- Wait. A paper what?”

***

Draco knelt on the tiles under the hot spray of the shower, so wracked with sobs that he thought he might actually get sick after all. Just hurl his spine and vital organs out through his mouth in a great bloody gout to wash down the drain. That would be better, wouldn’t it? That would be better, surely, than sitting on the stand in a week, or two weeks, or three, laying bare the last two years of his life to the eyes of strangers. Better than baring _the memories Snape had torn out of him_ to judges, and Aurors, and the _Press._ Better than being expected to move forward at all. Harry had won the war. The Dark Lord was dead, and Draco had helped, at least a little bit. Wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t that as much as could be expected of him? He was just a person. Not a soldier, or a _master spy,_ or the Chosen One, and Merlin, even the Chosen One was struggling. How the fuck was he supposed to be able to do this? He was just a person. And a weak one, at that. If he’d been worth anything at all to begin with, he would have told the Dark Lord _no_ and been cut down for disobedience when he was assigned to murder his own Headmaster. Or else bled to death on the seventh floor while Harry got _sick,_ or slit his wrists in Snape’s shower, or burned along with Crabbe and Goyle and that godforsaken tiara. That would have been so much neater. So much cleaner. So much more tolerable than all of this. 

What a fool he’d been, telling himself that he just had to make it to the end of the war. Whispering it into the pillows on Snape’s sofa… into the mirror while he checked his marks… into the secret places in his mind that he hid from the Dark Lord. That stupid, desperate, miserable wish - that if he just made it to the end of the war, it would be over. He’d either be dead, or he’d be free, and that would be it. But he’d been wrong about that, the way he’d been wrong about everything else. Because the war _was_ over, but he wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t free, and he never would be. 

He didn’t even know why he was fighting the charges. Even if everything went perfectly, and he and his mother were found not-guilty and totally exonerated, and their fortune and home were restored, he would still be _him._ He would still be fucking _Draco Malfoy,_ the prized, pampered son of his _legacy family._ Lucius Malfoy’s heir, marked property of a dead despot, weeping in the shower of his childhood rival’s house with his mentor’s fingerprints in his brain and his body covered in scars. Disfigured, inside and out. A moral and physical ruin. Worthless, disgusting, and damaged beyond repair. 

Deatheater Scum, that was all he was, and all his father had been. The finery couldn’t hide it, and he had none of that now, anyway. No imported silk, or pressed linen, or buffed nails. No crystal timepiece, or bribery money, or dozen high-end brooms, and none of that could cover up what was wrong with him, in any case. Not even a casket could cover that, and crushing his eyes shut, he tried to imagine sitting in the very chair where his father had been sentenced to life by a Government that had no power to hold him, taking his place, and trying to convince anyone that he didn’t deserve to go the same way. That he didn’t deserve to rot in prison in Lucius Malfoy’s place. 

He tried to imagine begging for clemency.

For mercy. 

What was the _point?_

“Darling?”

Draco gasped and sucked his last sob back into his mouth, his eyes snapping open where his face was pressed against the tiles. 

It was his mother. Fuck.

“Draco? Darling, are you alright? Severus said you had a bad reaction. May I come in?”

He dug his fists hard into his thighs, squeezing his eyes shut and gulping air. “No,” he finally managed. “I’m fine, mother. I - just - needed a bit of - pampering.” 

What a stupid fucking thing to say. 

He grimaced, and there was a heavy pause, and he summoned his wand through the curtain and started frantically casting his charms on his face, knowing there was about an eighty percent chance she was going to _alohomora_ the lock and come in no matter what he said. 

“Are you sure?” Narcissa asked through the door. “You sound a bit…”

“Yes,” Draco said, and hit his forehead against the tiles, fighting to regulate his voice. Small mercy that the shower was going. “I’m quite alright. I get a bit… nauseated. From the magic, you know. It’s uncomfortable. Will you tell Professor Snape not to worry?” 

“...If you say so. But Kreacher is making _croque monsieur_ as a late lunch for the three of you. I’ve had mine already, and it was delectable. I hope you’ll come down.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, knocking his head against the shower wall in an even rhythm, willing himself back under control. “That sounds lovely. I’m nearly finished. I’ve just got to… condition.”

Another long pause followed that ridiculous remark, and Draco held his breath, knowing she could see right through him. She always did. His only hope was that she’d allow him his lies to preserve his dignity, the way she had at the Manor. 

“Alright,” Narcissa said. “Don’t be long. You hardly ate anything at all during breakfast and it’s past three.”

“I’ll come right down,” Draco assured her, and then listened hard for the sound of her footsteps retreating, and the click of his bedroom door. When he finally heard it, he sagged in relief and let his breath out in a rush. _“Fuck,”_ he whispered to himself, hanging his head and letting the water beat down on the back of his neck. _“Fuck.”_

What in Merlin’s name was he doing? He could have been restoring his Occlumency that whole time, but no, he’d very pragmatically decided to just cry about it. Stupid. He couldn’t fall apart. There was no time. None at all. He just had to pack himself back together, and _hold it_ together long enough to keep his mother out of prison. He just had to focus on that. Yes. She’d committed murder. She was most at risk, and if he melted down on the stand it would make it worse. They’d think he was lying, or that he was trying to manipulate them into believing he was helpless and pathetic. 

Pity the Wizengamot was unlikely to realize that was actually what he was. 

Exhaling deliberately through his mouth, he hit his head against the tiles one more time, and then scrubbed his face hard under the water. He could tell he’d have to cast his charms again. His eyes felt puffy and hot and his forehead was probably pink. But he supposed that was incrementally better than being covered in _blood and smoke._ A very moderate meltdown in comparison, really. He should be proud.

Reaching up to turn off the water, he sat still for a few slow breaths. Then he picked his wand up off the tiles and pointed it at his own face. _“Relifrigatus,”_ he murmured. _“Aridlacrimo. Pellisederum.”_ If he came downstairs looking normal, he could probably avoid being interrogated. Interrogated _again,_ anyway, and then after making an appearance in the dining room, he could retreat upstairs and patch his Occlumency back up while his mother was having _her_ brains turned out onto the floor. Then he’d be able to focus. Once he didn’t have to see Rowle’s face, or his father’s face, or the Dark Lord’s face, or fucking _Fiendfyre_ in his head anymore, it would be easier.

Bracing one hand against the wall, he dragged himself to his feet, took a deep breath, swept back the curtain, and stepped out into a veritable snow-drift of confetti. 

“What-”

A paper dragon flapped into his face.

***

“What did he say?” Severus asked as Narcissa closed Draco’s bedroom door behind her. 

“He said he’s conditioning his hair,” she answered. 

“That is a lie.”

“I know.”

They looked at each other in silence. 

“I did try to protect him,” Severus said after a moment. “Perhaps I could have tried harder.”

“You did protect him,” Narcissa sighed. “More than I could, anyway.” She looked sadly at the closed door. “What did you take out of him?” 

“Quite a collection,” Severus answered, painfully aware that he hadn’t been quite as gentle about it as might have been appropriate. Particularly not at the beginning. “Sixteen individual memories, none of them terribly kind.” He paused, and then reached into his pocket, withdrawing one of his own samples. The one labeled, _‘Snape, Severus: Draco in distress #4, threatens suicide.’_ He offered it to her. “I don’t think he should be left alone,” he said. “Not today, and likely not for a while. It may even be a mistake allowing him his privacy at this very moment.” Narcissa took the bottle from his hand and looked down at it, and Severus, recalling the way Draco had gazed up at him from his knees, resisted the urge to shift in discomfort. That picture was burned into his brain for all time. Draco’s face turned up towards him, filled with trust. But a hopeless kind of trust, like there was noose around his neck, and Severus was holding the end. “I’ll ask Harry to sit with him while I extract from you,” he continued. “He’s still quite tired, but I know he will. And he’s… he has such a talent for reaching out.” 

Narcissa met his eyes, holding the little bottle in her manicured hands, and Severus hesitated, unsure what she might need from him. He wouldn’t have begrudged her a bit of shouting, or even a slap. She’d entrusted Draco to his care - had begged him to save her son - and look what he’d done. Or, at the very least, what he’d allowed to happen. But she didn’t accuse him, or blame him, or dissolve into rage or grief, and when he opened his arms, she stepped into them, and accepted his embrace. 

“We’re going to get through this, Narcissa,” Severus said as she rested her head against his chest. “All four of us.” A single shiver of emotion rippled through her, but she controlled it quickly, as was her great talent. 

“Yes, well,” she said, sniffed, and pulled back. “We tend to, don’t we?” Smoothing her hands over her robes, she lifted her chin. “I’ll wait here for him. Go on and take care of number four. He needs to eat.”

“He will,” Severus answered, holding out his hand for his memory, and when she returned it, pocketed it. He turned away, but then paused, finding he had one more thing to say to her. “I killed him with a knife, you know. Not magic. A knife.” 

“Who?” 

“Rowle.”

***

Harry was startled out of his meditation by a gentle knock at the bathroom door. He’d ended up in his magic after all, having realized how severely overambitious he’d been in trying for all four objects in a row. He’d gotten past the watch alright, but Dobby’s knobbly sock had been one too many, and he’d withdrawn into his magic, unwilling to risk being discovered in distress so soon after being so… distressed. 

But, as usual, his magic was just the ticket, and, as usual, he’d found something distracting in there and completely lost track of time. He’d been strolling along the riverbank in the sun, looking for those weird orange fish, when a dark hole caught his eye. It hadn’t been there before, or else he’d never noticed it, and he’d crawled through at once to find a stone chamber splattered in luminous algae and populated with an even _weirder_ fish. It was almost like his subconscious was trying to give him what he wanted, but wasn’t quite sure what that was. 

_Weird fish, you say? Oh ho, Mr. Potter. Please enjoy this, the weirdest fish imaginable!_

The little bubble-eyed fish had been cute. The ones in the cave were unbelievably hideous, with leathery-looking skin, nightmare teeth, and _little lights dangling from their heads._

Not quite the silly, cartoonish creatures he’d been trying to find, but very interesting nonetheless. And kind of scary.

“Harry?”

He shook himself, blinking around the bathroom. What time was it? He couldn’t see how low the sun was - there was no window - but he figured it couldn’t be that late, as Severus hadn’t come for him sooner. Or… kicked down the door.

“Yeah?” he called back. “You can come in. I’m all done.” The door opened, revealing Severus dressed in his shirtsleeves as he had been at breakfast. He wasn’t wearing a bandage, and a sliver of Harry’s handprint showed shiny and red between the edge of his bracelet and his open cuffs.

“How is your sanctuary?” he asked.

“It’s good,” Harry answered. “I found a cave. Is it still daytime?”

“Oh, yes,” Severus said lightly. “Long past lunch, though. Are you ready to be coerced into eating again? I know having a flesh-prison is so…” His eyes found the row of possessions neatly arranged in front of Harry’s crossed legs, and his brow furrowed. “...inconvenient. What are you up to?”

“Practicing,” Harry answered. “How did it go with Draco?”

“Poorly, but about as well as can be expected. I’ll need to speak to your friends, and a few others to fill in some gaps, but I anticipated that. Memories are damaged by trauma and he’s had quite a lot.” Severus moved further into the room to stand over him. “Are you alright?”

“Yep.” Harry stretched out his legs, flexing and curling his feet. They were stiff and tingling, like he’d been under for a while. It was so easy to do that. “I’m fine.” 

Severus just looked pointedly at the assemblage of soldier - watch - sock - note, and folded his arms over his chest.

“Forgive me for being suspicious,” he said, leaning against the edge of the tub and nodding down at Harry’s little base-camp of horrific tragedy. “And allow me to be perfectly frank in informing you that this… arrangement… would be objectively alarming for even an impartial observer, which I am not.” 

“Oh, don’t make that face,” Harry said, sitting up on his knees and gathering his things into a pile. “You just gave me an idea, and I was testing it out. You know, in a _scholarly fashion.”_

“What sort of idea?” Severus asked, and when Harry offered up his collection, held out his hands to receive it. “I confess I cannot imagine what you might be doing that involves both your farewell note to me, _and_ a handmade Quidditch-themed sock.”

“Dobby made that sock,” Harry answered. “It was a Christmas present. The other one’s red with broomsticks. He didn’t really believe in matching.”

“Well,” Severus said slowly. “I seem to have discovered a new level of alarm.”

Harry scoffed, pulling on Severus’ elbow to get to his feet. “Really, I’m fine,” he said. “And I’m not lying.” He stood on tiptoe and gave Severus a peck on the lips. “In fact, I’m a genius. So, so smart. We should firecall Hermione and make her jealous.”

“Take pity on me, Potter,” Severus sighed. He was not at all in the mood for guessing games. “I’m having a challenging few days, and I’m about to ask you to take over suicide watch while I work with Narcissa. So please. Explain.”

“Suicide watch for who, myself?” Harry quipped, and then flushed. “Ooh, sorry. Not funny.” He chuckled and ran his hand through his hair. “Jeez.” Severus just gazed balefully at him and waited. “Sorry,” Harry repeated. “I just thought I might be able to let little bits of my magic out at a time when I get upset, and it seems like it worked, but I burned my hand, and then healed it. Alright? Look.” He held out his unmarked palm. “All better.”

Severus scrutinized his face. “So you had this brilliant idea, and you, in your great wisdom, decided to torture yourself to test it.”

“Controlled environment, right?” Harry answered. “Plus, you weren’t here to torture me.” He smiled brilliantly. 

“Try again,” Severus said, his voice flat, and Harry’s smile dropped off his face. Normally Severus wouldn’t like that, but that grin had been fake, and he was happy to see it go.

“Fine,” Harry conceded. “I got upset after the sock and went into my magic to calm down like you taught me. But it really did work, and I’ll show you tomorrow if I feel well enough. Or… whenever you do my memories.” He laid a hand on Severus’ chest and looked up at him, but his expression was not flirtatious. It was searching, and sincere. “How’s that?”

“Better,” Severus answered, and when Harry smiled again, it was small, and a bit sad, which let Severus know it was real. “Much better,” he continued, and leaned over to kiss his scar. “Though I will allow you to hide behind your jolly nonsense at meals, if you care to.”

Harry nudged him playfully. “It’s not _nonsense,”_ he said, turning on the nonsense, his little smile splitting back into a grin. “Genuine jolliness at all times. Now, what’s for lunch? I understand I have to maintain my _flesh-prison,_ and will be expected to keep someone from pitching off a cliff. C’mon.” He took hold of Severus’ sleeve, careful of the scar, and pulled him out of the bathroom. “Let’s put this stuff away.”

***

Lunch, which by that time may as well have been a late tea, was indeed a steaming platter of hot ham and cheese sandwiches - along with green salad - and when Severus came downstairs, pulled by the hand, there was a very glossy owl standing on the table and peering closely at the food.

“How unsanitary,” he said. 

“Look, she’s got a package,” Harry answered, letting go of him. “Let’s see. Are you Persephone? Wow, you’re big. May I have that?” He untied the little bundle from her foot and inspected it. It looked rather like a very small turkey leg wrapped in brown paper. “I think it’s shrunken. Can you?” He offered it to Severus, who took it and tapped it with his wand.

 _“Restitue.”_ Immediately, what looked like six dozen peach, pink, and yellow roses burst into full size in his hands. “What in God’s name-” he spluttered, overwhelming fragrance invading every orifice in his head as Harry gasped and leapt back. 

“Oh my FUCK! If that’s for Draco I’ll DIE. Is there a note? _Is it from Charlie?”_ Harry started dancing around the bouquet, apparently looking for clues. _“Oooh, is it? Is it from Charlie?_ There’s so _many!”_

“Good lord,” Severus muttered. “Such enthusiasm. Were you stung by something psychoactive inside your magic?” 

“What?” Harry began, but before he could ask if that was even possible, there was a second gasp from the foot of the stairs.

“Oh, how _lovely,”_ Narcissa crooned, pushing past Harry to stick her entire face into the arrangement. “Draco, _darling,_ tell me they’re from your _Weasley.”_

“I do not ‘have’ a _Weasley,”_ Draco grumbled, trailing in behind her and collapsing into one of the dining chairs. He looked surly and exhausted, and his hair was still damp, and as he sat, his dragon started pacing restlessly back and forth on his shoulders. “They’re probably for Harry.” He reached up to block the dragon’s passage and dropped his voice. _“Oh, sit down, will you? I’m fine. Choose a side. Sit. Sit.”_ It balked indignantly when confronted with his palm, spraying fire, but then kneaded at his shirt, settled down, and wrapped its spiked tail around the back of his neck. _“Thank you.”_

“They _are_ for Harry,” Severus said, finally fishing a card out from the depths of the bouquet. “Who…?” He turned the card over and frowned. “Care to explain why Fleur Delacour-Weasley is overwhelmed with gratitude for your compassion and generosity?” He quirked an eyebrow, and Harry blushed.

“Oh…” he said. “I forgot. I took Bill’s scars away right before I left Shell Cottage, and some gross gloop came out with it. I think it was… you know. Werewolf stuff.” He wiggled his fingers, and Draco, Narcissa, and Severus all looked at him. “What?”

“You… forgot?” Severus asked slowly.

“I got distracted!” Harry answered. “Kind of _immediately after doing it,_ as you well know. Give those here.” He took the roses from Severus’ hands, summoned a vase, and levitated them onto the table, where they took up most of the remaining space. “That is a lot of flowers,” he said, and then snapped his fingers. “Oh, hey! That reminds me. I was going to ask you. Do you know what every flower means, or just… I dunno, ones for potions?”

“I’d hazard to say most,” Severus answered, and then glanced down at his wrist as his bracelet warmed. The heat prickled at the tips of his delicate new scar. Not painfully, just noticeably. It would be a while yet for that sensitivity to fade.

 _[You weren’t kidding]_ appeared. _[He looks terrible. I’m gonna go ahead and start now, ok?]_

Severus inclined his head minutely, and Harry plopped down in the chair to Draco’s immediate right. The move was casual, like he was sitting beside a fellow Gryffindor at his house table, but Draco stiffened and sat up straighter all the same.

“Hullo, confetti dragon,” Harry said, and received a gift of fire. “Haha.”

“For example,” Severus continued. “These roses,” he pointed to the peach-colored ones, “symbolize friendship and gratitude. These,” he indicated pink. “Appreciation. And these,” he touched one of the yellows. “New beginnings.” He pulled a chair out for Narcissa directly opposite Draco, leaving the seat across from Harry for himself. 

“Don’t forget grace,” Narcissa added lightly, settling herself in her seat. “Pink roses - appreciation and grace. Thank you, Severus.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Is that a Slytherin thing?” he asked as Severus took his place beside her. “Flowers? Bill didn’t know any.”

“As far as I’m aware it’s generational,” Severus answered, as under the table, Harry’s foot briefly brushed his shin. “I’d be hard pressed to point out a single student in your year that would know a thistle from a snowdrop, no matter how strong the tradition might have been in their families. It was already falling quite out of fashion when I was in school, though it seems Mrs. Delacour-Weasley is familiar with the basics. Or, at the very least, her florist is.”

“Hm,” Harry said. “Alright, then. I have a question.” He rested his elbow on the table and snapped his fingers, summoning a single garish purple blossom with a delicate trumpet shape. “What flower is this, and what does it mean?”

Severus squinted at it, and when Narcissa let out an uncomfortable titter, over at her. “Pardon me,” she said. “I just - ahem. How rude.”

“Does it mean _fuck off?”_ Harry asked. “It does, doesn’t it?” He slapped his palm onto the table. “I _knew it.”_

“That,” Severus sighed, “is a petunia, and petunias represent anger and resentment, yes.” Harry gasped and dropped it. “Indeed,” Severus continued, using his wand to fill a plate before floating it across to Harry. “Petunias are, as you say, the _fuck off_ flower.”

“But - jeez.” Harry looked down at the bloom like it might try to bite him. “Anger and resentment? What do lilies mean?”

“Purity,” Severus answered, and served Draco next. Two _croque monsieur_ and a scoop of salad. Narcissa had already eaten, he knew, the better to expedite her own memory extraction, though he rather doubted she would have gotten sick even without that precaution. She wasn’t the sort. Draco, however, still looked a little green. Or… white. “Sometimes devotion or virtue, depending on color. And meanings can change with intention, as well.”

“Wow,” Harry said. “Those are… pretty different.” He frowned down at his full plate, but then wiped the expression away and replaced it was a roguish sort of grin. “So, you’re an expert. How about this one?” He snapped again and held out a fresh cutting, proceeding to administer a very specific floral exam, resulting in quite a collection of insulting Victorian symbolism strewn across the table. 

Severus knew what he was doing, of course. Victorian culture was so incredibly repressed that people had actually gifted each other bouquets whose meanings could be much more efficiently communicated through a punch in the face, and the discipline was objectively very funny if you isolated out only those sorts of flowers. And as Harry seemed to be choosing his botanical samples through sheer force of negative emotion, his reactions were genuine, and also very funny. Which was the point. He was trying to draw Draco out, and he did not give up even when Draco maintained his morose plate-staring through heartless hydrangea, deceitful snapdragon, distrustful lavender, hostile tansy, and, indeed, misanthropic thistle. 

It was basil that finally managed what the others had not. 

“Hate,” Severus said, and Draco looked up. 

“Hate?” Harry asked, eying the sprig of green in his hand with deep skepticism. “Basil means _hate?”_

“Yes it does,” Severus answered, taking the fragrant sample from him and holding it out. “The Greeks of old considered the unfurling leaves to resemble a Basilisk’s unhinging jaw. And the Basilisk’s glare - deadly, as you know - was associated with hatred. Therefore.” He laid the basil beside the lavender. “Basil symbolizes hate.”

“So, what, pesto is _hate sauce?”_ Harry demanded, and very unexpectedly, Draco let out a single bark of laughter. “Hate sauce with _cheese,”_ Harry continued, a spark of triumph igniting in his eyes. “Cheese goes so well with HATE.”

“Especially fresh mozzarella,” Draco cackled, finally taking a proper bite of his sandwich. Harry himself had managed to put away an entire _croque monsieur_ and a half over the course of the meal, which Severus thought was an excellent effort at modeling good behavior. “Like in Florence. Remember, Mother? Heirloom tomatoes, mozzarella and HATE salad.”

“Oh, yes,” Narcissa agreed. “That was delightful. I’m quite partial to balsamic reduction with my hatred.”

At that, Harry dissolved into laughter, and Draco followed after, and Severus sat back in his chair, quite honestly charmed. After what he’d put Draco through, _giggling_ was far more than he’d been expecting, even without knowing what _Harry_ had been through. Watching the pair of them, one could almost forget that anything at all was the matter. One could almost forget that Harry was so full of pain that it could not be contained. That he’d been upstairs needling himself with grief. That blood had filled his eyes, and smeared Severus’ face, hardly a day before. But despite all that, there he was making Draco Malfoy laugh because Severus had asked him to keep an eye. 

_What a fucking angel,_ he thought, and in his peripheral vision, he could see that Narcissa was thinking that too. He could see it in the set of her mouth, and the tilt of her head. The softness of her gaze as it rested on the two of them. 

_He’s an angel._

It was true, of course. Harry was an angel, but he was also a boy. Well, a man, now. Had been for… what was it by then? Nearly ten months. 

What a lot of wasted time. 

Narcissa gave him a questioning look, apparently sensing his attention, and Severus looked away, a tiny squeeze of anxiety tightening around his stomach. It was uncomfortable, but for once, not entirely unwelcome. For he knew two things about Narcissa if he knew anything at all: She could keep a secret, and she knew a lot about jewelry. 

***

By the time Harry and Draco had settled into the parlor with a stack of scrap parchment and a very excited magical dragon, it was nearly quarter past five, and Severus requested a bottle of oaked Chardonnay to be brought up from the cellar and put on ice for the pair of them before offering his hand to Narcissa.

“Shall we?” he asked. “I don’t expect to be terribly long with you. Two hours at the outside.”

“Of course,” Narcissa answered, taking Severus’ hand and sparing a glance for her son. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his shoes off, laying out a number of squares of paper, apparently to demonstrate his dragon’s propensity to shred. “Stay out of trouble, gentlemen.”

“Aspersions,” Draco said. 

“We will, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry answered brightly, and they turned their attention to the Horntail, which was already busying itself reducing the first piece of parchment to thin ribbons.

“See? It just wants to _destroy,”_ Draco said. “I gave it some old essays and it made a nest.”

“Does it just do that with paper, or other stuff, too?” Harry asked. “I’d feel a bit bad if it tore up all your clothes or something.”

“I think it’s just with paper. I’m trying to figure out if it’s eating it, or storing up shreds, or what, but it’s unclear.”

“Huh,” Harry said, and looked at his own hands. “I have no idea.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Teaser for Pacify Part 1 the Podfic is up! Includes the series summary, along with a scene from part 2, chapter 5: what he wants. Check it out here!!
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897103/chapters/68312206


	14. Malfoy, Narcissa

Leaving them to it, Severus and Narcissa proceeded into the hallway, only to be immediately waylaid by Kreacher appearing with the tiniest  _ crack  _ imaginable, like a single dry twig trodden on in a forest at night. 

_ “Carefully,” _ he whispered to himself, freezing solid, his arms full and his ears perked.  _ “Carefully, Kreacher. Kreacher must not startle Masters. Masters must not scream. Kreacher is so clum-” _

“You haven’t startled anyone,” Severus said, and Kreacher gasped and whirled around. “Oh, my apologies. I seem to have startled you.”

“Master Snape!” Kreacher croaked, bowing so low that it could only be magic keeping the ice in his bucket. “Are Master Snape and Mistress Malfoy wanting glasses as well?”

“Not just yet, no,” Severus answered. “Go on in, Kreacher. They’re busy making a mess. And they’re expecting you, in any case. No need to… creep.”

“A mess,” Kreacher said, and bowed again. “Excellent choice for young Masters. A mess. Yes. Excellent.”

“Indeed,” Severus said, and frowned, wondering if anyone in the house was really sleeping. He certainly wasn’t getting a full eight hours, and he didn’t think passing out from exhaustion the way Harry had been doing lately really counted, either. Was Narcissa sleeping? He should ask. “Take care you’re getting enough rest, Kreacher,” he continued, and clasped his hands behind his back. “And that is an order, not a request. Your master forbade you from harming yourself, and believe me, he will consider sleep deprivation harm.”

Kreacher blinked up at him, his eyes bloodshot. “Oh,” he said after a moment. “Yes, Master Snape. Of course Kreacher obeys.” He bowed again, nodding. Nodding, and bowing, and nodding. What was the sleeping draught dosage for House-elves? He’d have to look it up. “Master Potter is so kind to Kreacher. Master Potter… so kind.”

“Yes,” Severus said, and tipped his head towards the door. At his gesture, Kreacher departed. 

“You’re quite a kind man yourself, these days,” Narcissa said, looking after the little elf as they continued on their way up to the library. “I suppose that’s  _ Master Potter’s _ fault, too, is it?”

“Certainly,” Severus answered, and held the door open for her. “As you’ve seen, his generous nonsense is incredibly contagious. Please.”

In the library, late afternoon sunlight was streaming in the windows in long streaks, painting the threadbare carpet copper and gold, and Narcissa took a seat on the sofa Severus had transfigured and folded her hands carefully in her lap. 

“I must admit I have never submitted to this sort of interrogation,” she said as Severus settled himself in the wingback and conjured a fresh row of bottles. “Is it painful? I took your discussion with Draco to mean I might get sick.”

“Some do,” Severus allowed. “But I don’t think this will be terribly difficult for you. Any pain comes from resistance. Without resistance, deliberate or otherwise, the primary sensation is a pulling or tugging. Like unpicking a seam in your mind and drawing out the thread. Strange, but not painful. Or, at least, it shouldn’t be. Do you understand what I mean by resistance?” Narcissa nodded and crossed her legs at the ankles. “Good. I’d like to start with the Unbreakable Vow. I’ve already tapped my own memory of that night, but it will be best to have yours as well. Are you ready?” Narcissa’s eyes flickered over his face, and then settled. 

“Yes,” she said. “At your word.”

Severus pointed his wand between her eyes. She did not flinch.  _ “Legilimens.” _

***

“So,” Draco said, watching Harry crumple a bit of torn parchment into a little ball. “Your eyes look better.”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, balanced the ball on his palm, and then flicked it across the floor for the dragon to chase. Which it did, and lustily. “I healed them straight away. No trouble. It doesn’t really fetch, does it?” 

Draco looked over at the paper Horntail where it was ripping the little ball to bits. “No… it doesn’t really fetch,” he said. “It seems like it just kills.”

“Like a cat!” Harry answered, flicking a second ball and laughing as the dragon slapped into the side of the sofa in its enthusiasm.

“Yes, a bit,” Draco said. “It sleeps like one, anyway.” He hesitated. “What - um. What happened?”

“To my eyes?” Harry took a sip of his wine and then leaned back on his hands. “Magic accident. Pretty common.” He grinned wryly. “For me, at least. But they didn’t hurt or anything. They were just ugly. Sorry for scaring you.” 

“I wasn’t scared,” Draco answered at once, and then took a sip of his own wine. “I was just… worried. When Professor Snape came downstairs he had blood all over him, and he sort of…”

“Overreacted?” Harry supplied, tearing a new section of parchment to roll. “Sometimes he does that, since I’ve almost died so many times. But it was just a nosebleed that got on him. I was fine.”

“I wouldn’t say he overreacted,” Draco said slowly, wondering how many times  _ ‘so many,’ _ was, and how, precisely, one might get someone else’s nosebleed smeared all over one’s face. “Judging by how you came back, it seemed pretty appropriate, actually.”

“You can probably call him Severus, you know,” Harry said. “Ron does, and Hermione’s giving it a go, too, even if she backslides sometimes. Calls him _ Professor.  _ But she’s trying.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Did he teach you to do that?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Deflect.”

Harry chuckled, and flicked three balls right in a row,  _ ping-ping-ping, _ sending the Horntail into a frenzy of teeth, tail, claws, and ‘fire.’ “Yeah, he did,” he said. “Clearly I’m still learning the delicate art of turning attention away from sensitive topics.”

“Well, you’re hardly a Slytherin, are you, Potter?” Draco drawled, and then laughed himself as the dragon popped its head out from behind the leg of the coffee table with the eviscerated remains of a paper ball skewered on its spines.

_ “That,  _ you can definitely stop,” Harry said easily, reaching over to top off Draco’s glass.

“What, talking about houses?” Draco asked. “On your grave. I’ll live and die in Slytherin green.”

“No, not  _ houses,” _ Harry answered. “Calling me ‘Potter.’ We are definitely past that, don’t you think? You’ve called me Harry a few times already and I don’t think it burned your mouth.”

Draco looked away, focusing on his dragon where it was aggressively attempting to collect a ball that had lodged between the sofa and the wall. He’d heard Snape say ‘Potter.’ Through the ceiling. 

“Harry, then,” he finally said. “If you want.”

“I do indeed,” Harry answered, and held out his glass. “Cheers.”

Draco eyed the gesture, and let out a huff of wry laughter. “You’re very forgiving, aren’t you?” he asked. Harry glared at him. 

“I almost disemboweled you, Draco,” he said. “Who’s forgiving?” 

“I tried to  _ crucio _ you,” Draco countered with a prickle of discomfort, remembering what Snape had told him about how that particular impromptu duel had ended: Draco in the Hospital Wing, being prodded and threatened, and Harry clawing at himself on the floor of a bathroom. Snape’s bathroom, most likely. What a mess. “Right there in the hallway. I tried to assassinate Dumbledore, I almost killed your best mate, and I tried to  _ crucio  _ you. And -”  _ I took Snape away. He did it for me.  _ “And… here I am drinking your wine. You  _ benevolent bastard.” _

“I haven’t the slightest idea where this wine came from,” Harry answered. “Might be your Great Aunt’s, for all I know. But I’m really not all that forgiving. We were both just in the same war, eh? Can’t expect everything to be all pickup Quidditch all the time.”

Draco looked into the buttery prism of his wine, thinking that Harry really  _ was  _ that forgiving. Or, perhaps, that he didn’t know everything. But Snape had said that Harry  _ did  _ know. He’d said it that night. 

…After. 

“True,” Draco said. 

“And we ended up on the same side, too,” Harry continued genially. “At the end, at least.” He tapped Draco’s leg with his foot and twitched his glass. “Now cheers me or I’ll pop you one.”

***

Narcissa’s resistance was indeed minimal, and Severus was able to extract the night he’d sold his soul to her family with no trouble at all. Her recall was excellent, too, and he found as he moved through her past that even her most emotionally fraught memories were clear enough for legal purposes. It was really quite admirable, and he worked as quickly as he could without rushing her, wanting to minimize her discomfort, as well as the time Harry and Draco were left alone. But her mind was organized, and in short order he had seven vials neatly labeled beside his elbow: 

_ ‘Malfoy, Narcissa: Requests intervention from Severus Snape on behalf of son.’  _

_ ‘Malfoy, Narcissa: observing son in distress #1 - 4.’ _

_ ‘Malfoy, Narcissa: tortured with family for failing to hold Harry Potter.’  _

_ ‘Malfoy, Narcissa: Auror Unit (signifier stripped) in Dark Lord’s Headquarters #1 & 2.’  _

_ ‘Malfoy, Narcissa: Aurors (names unknown) kneel before Dark Lord #1- 7, accept masks.’ _

_ ‘Malfoy, Narcissa: use of Avada under coercion.’ _

_ ‘Malfoy, Narcissa: offers Bellatrix Lestrange (sister) to Order Members.’ _

It was more than he’d expected, and he touched the vial marked  _ Aurors kneel,  _ rather impressed, thinking that the DMLE might find they’d been a bit overambitious when they came after Narcissa and her son. Particularly now that she was freed from Lucius. 

He turned to look at her. She was very pale, but her hands were steady and still folded, which was impressive, too. Generally speaking, people turned to clutching their armrests, the way the Weasley’s had, or their own heads, the way Draco had. But she was just as poised as she had been when she executed her own husband.

Impressive.

He’d always liked her.

“Do you need a moment?” he asked.

“No,” Narcissa answered. “What’s next?”

“The clearing,” Severus said. “I understand you told the Dark Lord that Harry was dead. Did you know it was a lie?” She nodded stiffly. “Very good. Call it up.  _ Legilimens.”  _

He passed through her eyes as if through a long, narrow tunnel, and came out in that godforsaken circle of trees. There were more Deatheaters than he’d thought, but even so, he watched with vindictive satisfaction as the Dark Lord was helped to his feet by a fawning Bellatrix, his face burned and peeling, and his robes scorched. 

Severus supposed they had been unable to repair the damage done by Harry’s magic. 

It was with rather less satisfaction that he followed their gazes to see Harry, sprawled across the leaf-strewn ground a ways away. He was filthy, and tiny, and limp as a corpse, and Severus had to fight to stay present as his own memories threatened to intrude. But he managed to control the crumbling grief welling up inside him, and he stood still as the Dark Lord sent Narcissa to Harry’s side with a stinging hex, telling her to check for a pulse. Narcissa obeyed, kneeling down, touching Harry’s body gently, sliding one hand inside his shirt to feel for warmth and heartbeat. She leaned close to his mouth and nose, bracing one hand on the ground, her hair hiding her face. And then she sat back, and announced to the assembled Deatheaters that Harry Potter was dead. 

Severus watched his former associates cheer and stomp and whoop, and send spells into the sky in celebration, as Hagrid, trussed and helpless, thrashed in silent hysteria against a tree. Of course. Of course Hagrid had been there. Had seen it all. Had  _ carried him. _

_ ‘You see?’  _ the Dark Lord shrieked over the tumult.  _ ‘Harry Potter is dead by my hand, and no man alive can threaten me now! Watch! Crucio!” _

Somehow, that was too much by itself, and Severus jerked out inadvertently in his sudden outrage. But he managed to touch the tip of his wand to Narcissa’s temple before she too snapped back, and into the bottle the foul memory went.

“He  _ crucio’d  _ him,” Severus said, tapping the label so that  _ ‘Malfoy, Narcissa: Betrays the Dark Lord, lies for Harry Potter,’  _ appeared. “He thought Harry was dead, and still  _ crucio’d  _ him.”

“Yes,” Narcissa answered with a small shake of her head. “Or… he tried. But it didn’t hurt him. Nothing could hurt him.” She rubbed her eyes. “It was amazing.”

Severus was sure it had been amazing, and he nudged the little vial into place beside the others, hesitating. Narcissa’s color was poor, and it would be rude to ask for more just so he could see Harry’s dramatic entrance. That was not even remotely related to the impending trial, and yet… the only other surviving witnesses were Hagrid, Pettigrew, and Harry himself. Every single soul aside from those four that had seen Harry face death was dead themselves, and Severus had no access to Hagrid or Pettigrew, and certainly he would never make Harry relive that night for his own curiosity’s sake. And here was the final witness, sitting straight-backed and proud in the library, having proven already that her memories were clear, and lucid, and immersive.

It might be his best chance.

“Narcissa,” he began carefully. “If you aren’t too depleted… Would you mind if I…?” He trailed off, unsure, and she scrutinized his face. 

“You want to see the rest, is that it?” she asked. “I can hardly blame you if you do.”

“If you have it. Yes.”

“Oh, I have it. I saw everything.” She ran her palms down her skirt, smoothing it across her thighs. “Go on. Surely I owe you much more than this.”

_ “Legilimens.” _

***

“May I ask you something?” Draco said. “It’s a bit… personal.” They’d moved on from tossing crumpled paper to trying to coax the dragon into progressively smaller parchment tubes, and the little beast had surprised them both by compressing itself into an impossibly narrowly rolled scroll, which, having filled with the remaining bits and strips of paper, it now categorically refused to leave. 

“Sure, if you want,” Harry answered. “Though I reserve the right to respond with virginal outrage if it’s warranted.”

Draco scoffed, keeping his eyes off the marks on Harry’s neck through sheer willpower. The shirt he was wearing was overlarge, the collar stretched to expose his clavicle, and it seemed like… there were a lot of marks. 

“It’s about your magic, _Pot-_ Harry. Not your _personal_ _life.”_

“Potarry is what my friends call me,” Harry said, dangling a thin strip of paper over the entrance to the dragon’s tube. A single clawed foot snaked out and snatched it. “Oh, shit!” he gasped, and then started to laugh. “I thought it was facing the other way!” He leaned down to peer inside, got confetti right in the eyes, squawked, and fell back onto his hands.

“You are impossible,” Draco sighed, and rolled his eyes, trying to be annoyed, but he wasn’t sure how effective the gesture was while he was sitting on the floor with his shoes off.

“That little thing is feisty!” Harry said, ruffling paper out of his hair. “Good thing the fire isn’t real, eh?” He laughed again. “Anyway, what was your question?”

“Oh,” Draco began. “Right. Well, you told Professor Snape you were going to go  _ ‘into’  _ your magic-”

“Severus,” Harry interjected. Draco ignored it.

“-and he told you not to get  _ ‘lost.’”  _ He paused expectantly, but Harry just looked at him like that wasn’t a question. And it wasn’t, he supposed, though there was such a thing as  _ subtext.  _ “He said he couldn’t go in after you…?” he continued, and squinted. 

Harry did not seem to be following at all, and he couldn’t tell if it was intentional density or genuine idiocy. But it couldn’t be the latter, could it? Not really. Not with Snape wrapped around his little finger the way he was. Maybe Harry thought playing dumb was cute. Which it… wasn’t. 

“And that is not a magical discipline I am familiar with so what the fuck does that mean?” Draco finally finished.

“Oh!” Harry said. “You don’t go into your magic?”

***

Severus sat staring blankly into Narcissa’s eyes as the memory faded, absolutely lost for words. He’d known the story already, of course, at least in its bare bones. Harry had told him that he’d been intentionally inflammatory in the hopes the Dark Lord would kill him quickly, and some of what he’d said, and Hagrid had regaled the whole dinner table with that devastating  _ wink, _ but nothing could have prepared him for actually seeing it. Nothing. For that Wizard, out there, in the clearing that night? That had not been his Harry, or even his Wizard Prince. He had not been merely fearless, or merely flippant, or merely cocky. He’d been like a trickster God. A Satyr dancing on the rim of hell, tempting out the devil. 

If Severus had been in that circle of Deatheaters, he wouldn’t have doubted for a single second that it was all a ruse. That Harry was going to swallow that  _ Avada Kedavra  _ like a fucking pheonix, and spit it right back into Voldemort’s face. How they could have stood there and gone through with, he couldn’t imagine. How they could have believed the Dark Lord would triumph, when that starved seventeen-year-old boy had waltzed right into their forward base and made them all look like fools. How they could have-

“I take it he didn’t tell you,” Narcissa said, and touched the underside of his chin, bringing his attention to the fact that his mouth was actually hanging open. He shook her off at once, embarrassed. 

“He told me,” Severus said. “That just… wasn’t quite what I’d envisioned.”

“No, I suppose it wasn’t,” Narcissa answered. “That boy could have been the next Dark Lord. I don’t think anyone in those woods would have failed to fall to their knees after what we saw.” She sighed and leaned back. “But I suppose they did fall to their knees, at the end. The survivors. You should have seen their faces when they realized your Mark was gone.” She gazed into the middle distance, her expression closed. “They should have known it was over the moment you slipped through His fingers. He was so burned. His _ face,  _ and Nagini reduced to ashes. And then that insane announcement? Merlin. Calling for your head, and my son’s, like he had no idea where you’d gone. It was so impotent. So desperate. They should have known right then that the war was lost.  _ He  _ should have known.”

Severus wasn’t even remotely listening to her. He was thinking about Harry blowing a kiss into the sea of Deatheaters assembled to watch his execution, and telling them he was  _ taken.  _ By an  _ ex-Deatheater, _ you know, because that was what he liked. Traitors. Or, more specifically, the traitor that would end the war by his side before the sun rose, though neither of them yet knew it.

_ ‘My God, what a mouth’?  _

My God, full stop. 

“Platinum,” Narcissa said, and Severus refocused on her, startled.

“Pardon me?” 

_ “Platinum,”  _ Narcissa repeated in a purr, tapping one manicured nail on the upholstered arm of the sofa. “Colorless diamonds. Pavé, if you think he won’t care for a center stone. He seems the sort to appreciate something understated, but you never know, and Salazar help you, but he’d look lovely in jewels. Is he taking your name?” Severus opened his mouth and closed it again, and Narcissa pursed her lips in a tiny, indulgent smile. “Oh, my mistake, Severus. Were you not about to ask me what sort of ring to put on that finger? How terribly uncouth of me to assume.”

“I…” Severus began slowly. “How did you…?”

“Honestly I’m rather shocked you haven’t done it already, but I suppose you weren’t aware of what you had?” She raised her eyebrows, and Severus scowled at her. 

“I’ve been a bit _busy,_ Cissy,” he hissed. “You know, keeping you out of prison. Oh, and fighting a _war.”_ He should have known she wouldn’t even give him the chance to ask. Narcissa Black had always been too perceptive for her own good. Her sisters, too. Trouble, the lot of them.

“Winning one, my good man,” Narcissa answered, some of her color returning at the apparent prospect of shopping. “Tell me, do you have a budget? A jeweler?”

“Do I look like I have a budget and a jeweler?” Severus snapped, but Narcissa just laughed at him.

“Oh, calm down,” she said. “Your blindingly obvious secret is safe with me, and I know just the man. He’s quite bizarre, but an artisan of the highest order. Lives and breathes precious metals, and  _ never  _ speaks to the press. Doesn’t even take the Prophet, as far as I’m aware. Practically a recluse!”

***

“Sometimes I think I’ve lost my bloody mind, making up the stuff I have in there. I could have just made… I dunno. A dog. But _no,_ _Harry Potter’s_ subconscious wants a blue-faced bird the size of a person, or a rat thing covered in armor. Just totally mad, made-up animals, and mad, made-up plants, and it changes all the time. I can’t keep track at all, but Severus says that’s not usual. He told me most people have to put their place together bit by bit, the way mine was in the beginning. One blade of grass, one stick, one rock at a time. But…” He shrugged. “Big surprise, mine does whatever it wants, just like the rest of my magic.”

“So… is it imaginary?” Draco asked, nonplussed by this explanation. “Like a dream? Or a hallucination?”

“I’m not really sure,” Harry answered. “But I don’t go anywhere physically, so… maybe it is like a dream. Severus called it hypnosis. Or self-hypnosis now, I guess. He put me under the first few times, but after that I could do it by myself. Oh, and he told me I summon these shadows around my body when I’m in there, too. Ron and Hermione have seen me do it. Like ghosts of the animals and plants I’m interacting with. Butterflies… frogs… flowers… that sort of thing.”

“I thought you said they were fantasy animals?” Draco laughed. “If all you can come up with is a frog and a bird, I must say I’m not that impressed with your madness.” 

“I can come up with all kinds of things, don’t worry,” Harry said, pointing to the rustling paper tube. “Just today I saw something totally insane. I was walking down by the river - there's this wide, shallow river, really good for soaking - and I found a cave. So I crawled inside, and it was all flooded, and filled with these absolutely  _ horrendous  _ looking fish.”

“Horrendous?” Draco asked. “What makes a fish horrendous?”

“Ok,” Harry began, holding out his hands. “So picture sort of a… potato. But  _ mangled,  _ and it has a gaping mouth full of  _ needle teeth.” _

“That… does sound relatively horrendous,” Draco conceded.

“I’m not done,” Harry continued. “Needle-toothed potato, right? But it’s got an underbite, and these beady little eyes, AND-” he raised his index fingers. “There’s a light attached to its face, like a lantern on a pole. A  _ light, _ ok? Is that  _ mad  _ enough for you? OH! And the  _ finger-monkey.” _

“Finger-monkey?” Draco repeated, now actually a little concerned. 

“Yeah, the  _ finger-monkey,”  _ Harry answered. “I saw it high up in a tree, kind of clinging onto a branch, but it wasn’t a normal monkey. It had big glassy eyes, and HUGE ears. A bit like a House-Elf, but smaller, and it had one  _ really long finger.” _ He crooked his own like a hook. “Like this, but way longer than you want it to be.”

“What?” Draco asked, watching Harry’s pantomime skeptically. “It only had one finger?”

“No, it has whole hands, but one finger is extra long and skinny. Like I said, it was holding on to a branch really high up. But that one finger… too long. Creepy. Definitely not a real animal.”

“That sounds like an Aye-aye, actually,” Severus said, and Harry and Draco both jumped and looked around. “They’re rare, but not fantasy. A type of lemur.” He gestured Narcissa inside before sitting down and crossing his legs like he’d been there all along. “What sort of tail did it have?”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Kind of fluffy, I guess.” 

“Long?”

“...Yeah. Long.” He frowned. “That’s a real animal? What’s the finger for?”

“Extracting grubs.”

“Huh.” Harry stared into the dark fireplace for a long moment. “Ok. But those cave-fish were definitely not real.”

“What fish?” Severus asked. 

“Kreacher?” Narcissa called. “Bring another bottle, will you? Two glasses. Lovely. Thank you.”

“Disfigured potato with a lantern on its head,” Draco said. “And… toothy.” Harry pulled a face, baring his teeth and sticking out his lower jaw. 

“Angler fish,” Severus said. “Those ‘lanterns’ are very valuable. And don’t make that face.”

“Oh  _ please,” _ Harry said, exasperated. “You’re having me on.”

“I am not,” Severus answered. “Where were you educated?” 

“I dunno, ask  _ Hagrid,”  _ Harry shot back. 

“Angler fish are not magical creatures. They are just fish.”

“What do you mean they aren’t magical? They were swimming around like hideous little stars under there.”

“Where were you when you saw them?” Severus asked, taking the bottle from Kreacher’s hands and extracting the cork with his wand. “Swimming, I take it.” He poured for Narcissa and himself, while Draco drained the dregs of the first bottle into Harry’s glass. 

“Sort of wading,” Harry answered. “I was in a cave.”

“And these fish of yours were near the surface, were they?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, there is a slight error, there,” Severus continued, floating the fresh bottle over to Draco without looking at him. “Angler fish do not live in caves, rivers, or lakes, and certainly they are not visible from the surface unless something has gone horribly wrong from their perspective.”

“Where do they live, then?”

“At the bottom of the ocean. The light lures prey out of the darkness of the deep sea, but it’s not magical. It’s biological.  _ Bioluminescence,  _ in fact.  _ Bio _ meaning  _ life,  _ and  _ lumin  _ meaning  _ light.” _ Harry just glared at him like he thought he might be making fun. 

“What are you, a zoologist  _ and  _ a botanist? Bottom of the ocean can’t be right. They’d be crushed by the pressure.”

“I am not a Zoologist, no,” Severus answered dryly. “Or a botanist, as such. But one must be well-versed in all manner of subjects to pass Potions Mastery. Anatomy and Physiology, Magical Theory, Herbology, Charms, Alchemy, Astrology… I have several Zoology texts in my personal collection - from the potioneering perspective, of course, but still coherent to a layperson - if you’d like to increase your knowledge on the subject instead of blanketing me in groundless accusations.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes. “So, what you’re saying is, you could have taught every subject at Hogwarts?” he asked.

“No,” Severus answered. “What I’m saying is, I’m an educated adult Wizard with a propensity for obsession and a general dislike of social engagement.” His bracelet warmed, and he glanced at it.

_ [I think he’s ok]  _ appeared.  _ [He’s been laughing and having a good time. Playing with the dragon and calling me Potter] _

“The method I use is simple,” Severus continued. “First, you must locate a ‘book,’ which is a collection of pages bound together for ease of handling. Then you retreat from distraction, open the cover, and use your eyes to absorb the markings within. The symbols enter your head through your pupils, and travel along your optic nerve to your brain, where they are converted into thought. At that point, you encode these ‘thoughts’ into long term memory, so the information is available for recall when needed.” 

Draco laughed right then, in fact: a snide little chuckle that sounded rather gratifyingly like the Draco Malfoy that had jostled for top marks with Hermione Granger, and written an entire song to harass the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

“Pff,” Harry scoffed, that pleased little twinkle still in his eyes. “I know how to  _ read. _ How about this: Little frog, but not frog-colored. Gold.  _ Shining gold?”  _ He raised his eyebrows. 

“Poison dart frog,” Severus answered dismissively. “Deeply relevant to all my fields.”

“Fine,” Harry continued, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Didn’t know it was a  _ poison _ thing. What about this one? Armored squirrel, pointy nose.”

“Armored?”

“Yeah. Like scales, almost.”

“Claws?”

“Yes.”

“Thick tail, or thin?”

Harry peered at him suspiciously. “...thick…” he said. 

“Pangolin,” Severus answered, and took a sip of wine. 

_ “‘Pangolin’?  _ You’re making up animals now!” Harry accused. “Ok. Ok. Orange fish, about yay big.” He held his forefinger and thumb three inches apart. “Eyes like bloody ping-pong balls. Swam like they were lost. Real fish?”

At that, Severus had to pause. Koi? Likely not. A priacanthus, maybe? But… wrong color. “Orange fish… ‘ping-pong ball’ eyes,” he said, considering.

“Yeah,” Harry answered. “Too big for their body. Almost silly.”

“What’s ping-pong?” Draco asked. 

“It’s a Muggle game,” Harry answered. “Table tennis?”

Draco shrugged.

“I'm afraid I’m not familiar with those,” Severus finally said. 

“HA,” Harry crowed, turning back to Draco. “Told you some of it was made up.” 

“Pity your brain is too underdeveloped to come up with something as bizarre as a fanged deep-sea potato,” Draco answered.

“Don’t test me, Malfoy,” Harry retorted. “I’ll make a fucking blast-ended skrewt out of steel wool. A hippogriff out of rusty nails! Don’t think I _won’t.”_

“Now look who’s using _surnames,”_ Draco sneered back. “You bleeding _hypocrite.”_

_“Oho!”_ Harry hooted. “A _bleeding hypocrite,_ now, am I? What happened to _Saint Harry the Forgiving?”_

“You’re the  _ worst Gryffindor  _ I’ve ever MET. Your founder would throw you in a  _ lake.  _ Filthy lying  _ sneak.” _

“Quite something to hear bickering, isn’t it?” Narcissa asked quietly, as Harry quipped back about what a picture-perfect Slytherin Draco himself was,  _ lying, sneaking filth  _ and all. “The dulcet tones of house rivalry.”

“What a charitable perspective,” Severus answered, and raised his goblet in a small salute. “May house rivalry be the great conflict of the next generation.” They clinked their glasses together and drank, and Harry and Draco argued about whose behavior was more underhanded and sly, and the dragon poked its head out and sprayed paper fire at Harry’s legs. Severus, for his part, settled down in his seat, perfectly content just to watch, though that required him to ignore Narcissa’s conspiratorial glances, which were many and varied. 

She had, as he’d expected, contained an overwhelming number of opinions about diamonds, and he was a little bit peeved by her sheer enthusiasm, despite knowing perfectly well that it was due partially - if not totally - to the loss of her own possessions. She’d gone on quite a zealous rant, really, pouring forth a flash-food of minutia about clarity, color, setting, and cut. There were gradations of everything, apparently, and dozens upon dozens of cuts, all with critically important effects on the brilliance of the finished piece. There was the asscher cut, the cushion, the marquis, baguette, pear, empress, and radiant. There was the princess cut, the oval, the drop, emerald, round, and still more and more, including but not limited to novelty cuts like hearts, leaves, and  _ birds. _ And as Harry tossed his head back in laughter at a particularly scathing insult about creeping around in the dungeons in the middle of the night, Severus rested the rim of his glass against his lips, looking at the imprints of his own teeth on that lovely skin, and thinking about inclusions, and flaws, and the Mohs Hardness Scale. Thinking about white gold, platinum, and engravings, and about a dusty cupboard filled with shoes, and a boy standing tall before a madman, thinking he’d never go home again. A boy using his last moments with his lover to ask him to keep living for the others. 

Diamonds. 

Halo settings. 

Pavé bands. 

Filigree. 

Narcissa had no fucking idea what she was talking about, and she did not know a single thing about Harry. But no one did, so he supposed she could be forgiven. And she did, after all, know a jeweler that might suit his purposes. Her strange  _ Mr. Withers Quail, Master Craftsman, _ who had a little hole-in-the-wall in Knockturn Alley, and no particular opinions about his clientele, no matter how much they’d been in the paper, or whose Professor they’d been, or how many people they’d killed. He just made excellent product to the specifications of his customers, and kept his mouth shut. And that was perfect, and Severus was going to send him an inquiry in the morning. Yes, first thing, to see if he really was as discreet as Narcissa said he was, and as blissfully unaware of politics.

His bracelet tingled with heat against Harry’s handprint, and he looked down. 

_ [You’re staring at me]  _ he read in shining silver, and looked back up to see Harry, in turn, staring at him.  _ [It’s making me a bit nervous. What are you thinking about?] _

Severus held Harry’s eyes for a moment, and then looked at the clock. It was half-eight, which was quite early, and though his mind was exhausted from the sheer number of memories he’d extracted that day, his body was not. 

_ [Do you… want to go upstairs?] _

Yes, he did. He did want to go upstairs. Rather wanted to  _ drag _ Harry upstairs by the hair, in fact, and had since the moment he’d seen him whip off his cloak and say,  _ ‘no manners at all, I.’  _

As far as Severus was concerned, there wasn't a man on earth that could withstand seeing that. But luckily for him, he didn’t have to withstand it. That unbearable deity was his. His partner, his Harry, who’d returned from every edge he’d ever encountered, right to Severus’ hands. From death, and despair, and oblivion, and simplicity. Back to the thicket, every time.

“Well,” Severus began, and Draco looked up twitchily from the maze of paper he’d constructed to try to coax his dragon back out of its tube. It was a fearful sort of twitch, Severus thought, and that was something else to work on, certainly. But later. “I think I’ve had quite enough human interaction for one day.” He stood. “Shall I leave you to… whatever it is you’re doing there, love?”

“Gonna lie down?” Harry asked.

“Not quite,” Severus answered. “But I think I’ll read for a while. I’ve been in several foreign heads today.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said. “Bit of reading sounds good, actually. Would you mind bringing me one of those books you mentioned? I do really want to look at one. A plant one too, maybe? For the tropics?”

“Of course,” Severus answered. “I’ll make a detour to the library. I believe Kreacher’s made an attempt at integrating my collection into the Black heirlooms. Hopefully it’s alphabetized. Is there anything else you’d like?” 

“No, just those,” Harry answered, and smiled at him, but it seemed a little unsure. Nervous, like he’d said. “I’ll meet you upstairs.” 

“I think I’ll stay,” Narcissa said, turning to Draco, who had returned his focus to his dragon’s hiding spot. “Care for a game of chess, darling? Maybe if we ignore it, it’ll come out.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are they gonna fuck now? Yeah. 
> 
> Pls. check out the podfic trailer by 221BasketCase here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897103/chapters/68312206
> 
> and as always, thank you so much for your comments and love, it makes all the difference. 
> 
> C


	15. Promises

When Severus opened the door to the master suite with a copy of _Magically Significant Chordata: A Complete Compendium,_ a copy of _Flora of the Rainforest,_ and his own pet project, _Corpora Occultatum -_ which he’d charmed to appear blank to all eyes but his own - he found Harry perched on the edge of their bed with his hands clasped in his lap. 

Severus stopped in the doorway. 

Harry hadn’t looked quite like that for a while. Not since the day Severus had given him his bracelet, and, fresh from their first foray into true, calculated deviance, Harry had lingered in the doorway, vulnerable and wary, like he was afraid he might be intruding on Severus’ space. Unsure of where he might stand after taking a good twenty lashes, coming down Severus’ throat, and then sleeping in his arms. 

As if Severus might suddenly not want him. 

“Am I still unsettling you?” Severus asked, laying his books on the dresser and closing the door. 

“I’m not unsettled,” Harry answered with a little chuckle that perfectly matched his uncomfortable body language. “I just…” He looked at his toes, flexing and curling under inside his socks. “Did I do ok?”

“With what?” 

“Draco.”

“With Draco?” Severus asked, moving to stand before him. “You were perfect. That boy needs your regard like he needs air, but Narcissa will take over for now. She can be quite devious when it comes to taking care of her son. You are relieved of duty.” 

He looked down at Harry’s bowed head. At the familiar spiral in his hair just at the crown, and at the glossy black waves and curls catching the light. 

“Harry,” he said, and when Harry kept his gaze downcast, took hold of his jaw. “Harry, love,” he continued. “Eyes up.” For a moment, Harry resisted, his fingers tightening and his shoulders shrugging in, but then he exhaled deliberately and obeyed the command, looking up at him. “Have I transformed into something unfamiliar?”

“No,” Harry answered, his eyes flickering in discomfort. 

“Then explain your fear.”

Harry’s mouth twitched like he would really prefer not to be making eye contact, but he didn’t look away. “I want something, but I don’t think you’re going to want to give it to me,” he whispered. “And… I don’t want to fight.”

“We are not going to fight,” Severus said. “And you’re being a very good boy already. Not twisting away from me when it’s clear that you’d like to.” He circled the tip of his middle finger around the edge of Harry’s jaw. Gentle. Coaxing. “Such obedience.” A warm flush of color appeared in Harry’s cheeks and began creeping up towards his temples, and he licked his lips anxiously. “Now tell me, my north star, what is it you want from me that has you sitting on your own bed like you don’t belong there? Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you if I’m able. I’d give you my own spine, as you well know.” He lifted Harry’s chin a little higher, brushing his thumb across his bottom lip. “I just won’t give you _yours._ Do you understand?”

Under his hand, Harry’s lips parted, and his breath quickened, his pupils dilating behind his spectacles. Severus could see it, and feel it, and that never failed to amaze him; that Harry’s body, independent of conscious thought, wanted what he had to offer. 

Wanted _him._

“I think… you need to explain the rules to me,” Harry breathed. “I don’t - I don’t understand the new rules.” 

“The rules are the same,” Severus answered, a jagged edge of desire already roughening his voice, and at the sound of it, Harry’s hands unclasped from his lap and flexed into the bedclothes. “The colors are the same, and always will be. I only ask you to consider that they are mine as well as yours. I, like you, have limits. I am capable of fear, panic, overwhelm. I am capable of regret. I am not a statue, hm? I am only myself.”

Harry searched his eyes, his brows knitting together. “Oh,” he said. “But - wow. That’s… so obvious. I just… never… _you’ve_ never…”

“Never used a color?” Severus supplied. “No. And forgive me, but if I’d known we would come out the other side of Albus’ machinations together, I would have done this very differently. Ah-” He pressed the pad of his thumb against Harry’s lips as he made to speak. “Do not misunderstand me. Every touch from my hands has been absolute honesty. I have never once feigned interest, nor pretended, and the times I have gone too far, it was my own unwillingness to pull myself back from the edge that was to blame. But I have not treated this relationship like it would last. I considered myself your servant - and still do, of course - but more than that, I anticipated the window of my service to close with the war. You were going to die, Harry. Your loss was my only future, and I planned to follow you into Elysium in the most literal sense. So why deny you even your most dangerous whims? Why push? Why put you through this when you’d never live to see the benefit? This work we’re doing now is painful, and I know it, but understand that it has been necessary all along, and now that, against all odds, I find myself your partner, I plan to preserve you. That does not, however, mean that I plan to treat you like blown glass. So. We arrive at the colors.” He flicked the fingers of his free hand, releasing a shower of sparks. “Green for _more,”_ he said, and flicked his fingers a second time. “Gold for _enough.”_ A third. “Purple for _I don’t know.”_ A final flick, and a sprinkle of fleeting rubies. “And red, for _stop._ Red for _no._ Red for _I can’t,_ or _I won’t,_ or _I don’t want to._ For either of us, yes?” Harry nodded. “Very good. Now you.”

The colors poured from Harry’s fingers and onto the floor in a flood of vibrant light. “Green, gold, purple, red,” he repeated breathlessly. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want to play that way with me anymore.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Severus answered, and seized him by the throat. “I’m a sadist.” He pulled Harry to his feet, relishing the shallow squeak of surprise he wasn’t quite able to suppress. “I am still going to play that way with you, love, and at this particular moment, I want you badly. Color?” 

“Green,” Harry answered at once, taking hold of Severus’ wrist with both hands.

“Lovely.” Severus pressed his thumb and fingers into the sides of Harry’s neck, feeling the heavy thump of his pulse as his blood tried to squeeze past the new obstruction. _“That,”_ he said, nodding to the forked, silver whip where it was still laying against the wall beside its rattan counterpart, “is red. Get rid of it.” Harry swallowed against his hand, blinked, and the foul thing vanished. “What a good boy. You’re going to get a bit dizzy, now.” 

Severus tightened his fingers, and kissed him. And kissed and kissed and kissed him, stroking his tongue into Harry’s mouth with exceeding gentleness; a slow, thorough, tender exploration, until Harry couldn’t quite keep up, and then until Harry’s hands fell away and his knees went weak. More than weak, really. They buckled. 

“Ah - careful,” Severus purred, catching him around the waist as he sagged. “Wouldn’t want you to hit your head, would we?” He spilled him onto the bed and started on his clothes. “Never doubt my desire to give you what you want,” he said, tugging Harry’s trousers down his legs, taking his glasses, and dragging his t-shirt over his head, and Harry, dazed and limp, allowed himself to be manipulated. “Only doubt my willingness to do lasting damage to you, which has never, and will never be my goal. You have to trust me to know when I might.” If there was anything to be said for Harry’s worn, overlarge clothes, it was that they were very easy to take off of him, and Severus had him stripped before he’d so much as reoriented himself in space. “Because I plan to terrorize and pull you apart every day of your life, and I can’t do that if you’re not healthy, can I?” Harry tried to lift his head, but Severus pinned him back down. “No,” he said. “Stay still and take what I give you. Yes?” He replaced the hand around his neck and gave it a single, threatening squeeze. “Green?” Harry’s throat worked, and he nodded against Severus’ fingers, his eyes hooded. “And green for me as well.”

Kneeling on the bed, Severus kept his hand in place as he leaned down to nuzzle against the crease of Harry’s hip. He pressed a kiss there, inhaled, and let his breath out with a low hum.

“As if I could give this up for a single day,” he murmured, mouthing up the underside of Harry’s cock and sliding his tongue slowly up the vein. By the time he reached the tip, there was already a drop of precome waiting for him, and he licked it off. “Mm. I’m going to make you come until you forget your own name, my beloved. I hope you’ve slept enough.” 

The first orgasm was easy to pull out of him. Rhythmically tightening and releasing the hand around Harry’s throat to keep him just on this side of the fog, and sucking his cock like it was the fountain of youth, it hardly took two minutes for Harry’s hips to buck up into his mouth. His cry, when he came, was thin and almost pained, and Severus kept his grip steady and firm as he swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed. He did not let go of Harry’s neck, nor did he stop what he was doing with his mouth. He just held Harry to the bed with that one hand and tightened his lips, taking his time in sucking him clean once the spasms had passed, enjoying the way the hard flesh in his mouth began to soften. And when Harry’s hands tangled into his hair to try to tug him off, he did not allow it. He just kept stroking and curling his tongue, his pace slowing into liquid langor as Harry twitched and twisted weakly, whispering some kind of protest. A little whimper of his name… a little _please,_ and _please stop,_ and _Severus please too much it's too much, please,_ which Severus ignored. ‘Please stop,’ was not ‘red,’ and they both knew it, and if Harry was afraid that their relationship had changed, Severus was going to disabuse him of that notion. He sucked again, a little harder, and Harry’s hands in his hair fisted and _pulled._

 _“Ah - god-”_ he choked out. _“Severusss - pleasssse…”_ That time his voice cracked, and finally, Severus obliged. He needed his mouth, anyway. And his wand.

Letting go of Harry’s neck, he clamped his fingers around his wrists, instead. 

“Get your hands off of me,” he growled, and when Harry’s grip released with a fearful little gasp, Severus pressed his arms to the bed. “Be still.” Withdrawing his wand, he pointed it at Harry’s bracelet. _“Geminio.”_

The cuff duplicated, and he slipped the copy onto Harry’s right wrist, tightened it to the skin, and then conjured a sturdy silver bar between them. Fastening it in place, he took hold of the whole arrangement, pinned it over Harry’s head, and, supporting his weight on that one fist, looked down into his eyes. 

“Can you touch your bracelet?” he asked, and Harry shook his head _no_ without even attempting it _._ He was panting, and pink, and Severus fixed the bar to the headboard with a length of chain before leaning back down. “Struggle for me, now,” he breathed into Harry’s mouth, and kissed him, listening to the gentle clink and jingle of metal on metal, and feeling the arch and twist of Harry’s body, and the restless flexing of his legs. 

He wasn’t trying very hard at all. 

Severus pulled back and slapped him. 

“I said _struggle,”_ he snarled, and Harry gasped again and wrenched his hands against their restraints with real effort, jerking his wrists this way and that, pulling and writhing. But there was no give - nowhere for him to go - and Severus softened his tone, pressing a kiss to the cheek he’d struck. “Will that hold you, love?”

“Yes,” Harry whispered, and when Severus tensed, yelped and turned his face away. _“Sir!”_ he corrected himself breathlessly. _“Sir. Sir.”_

Severus turned his face back to center. “Who do you belong to?” he asked.

“You,” Harry answered. _Clink_ went the chain as his arms flexed.

“That’s right,” Severus agreed, and leaned down to breathe in his ear like he was about to tell a vital secret. “I can see that you want to touch me, but I won’t allow it just yet. Or at all. We’ll see how you do. Now focus. How do you treat my property?”

“What?” Harry asked, his heels digging anxiously into the bedclothes.

“I said, _how do you treat my property, Potter?”_ Severus repeated. “Do you treat it carelessly? Damage it? Put it at risk? Answer me.”

“N-no.” 

Severus dropped his voice, stroking Harry’s cheek. “How do you treat what’s mine?”

“With… respect?” 

It was a transparent guess, and Severus could tell Harry knew it when he swallowed and averted his eyes.

“Respect. Hm.” Severus sat back on his heels to look down at him, thinking that he had never heard anything so inadequate in all his life. “Respect is for diplomas, and contracts, and certifications,” he said. “Is that what you are to me? A document?”

“I’m… um…” _clink clink,_ as Harry’s hands fisted and tugged down. The mirrored silver looked lovely against his skin, as it had from the very beginning, and Severus spared a moment’s imagination for a collar, and ankle cuffs. A chain to drape down his spine, holding his wrists behind his back, or to his thighs… what a picture that would make. “Severus…” Harry tried, but Severus just waited, and Harry resisted against his restraints, worrying his lower lip. He was getting hard again, but Severus did not touch him, and he did not speak. He just waited. “I - I don’t know the right answer,” Harry finally whispered. _Jingle, clink._ “Help.”

“Oh, poor Potter,” Severus said, and braced one palm beside Harry’s ribs, leaning over him so he had nowhere to look but right into Severus’ eyes. “He thinks he doesn’t know what to say to me, but he does. He always knows just what to say.” He grabbed Harry’s jaw, and squeezed. _“What are you?”_

Harry shrank back into the pillows, his eyes wide and searching, and there was a beat of silence. And then finally, he had an answer. 

“I’m… a treasure?”

It was spoken like a question, but it was so perfectly, precisely, _exactly_ the thought in Severus’ mind, that a tingle of wonder prickled across his skin. Intuition, or memory, or magic… with Harry, it was impossible to tell. 

“A treasure,” Severus agreed, and without warning, flipped Harry onto his stomach and dragged his hips back until his knees were under him, leaving his arms fully extended, the chain taut and trembling. “My _priceless treasure.”_ He pressed down between Harry’s shoulder blades, arching his back and pushing his chest towards the bed. _“Mine.”_ Skimming his palms down from Harry’s shoulders to his hips, he pressed a kiss to the flawless skin at the very top of his thigh. “You gorgeous, wild creature,” he breathed. “I’m going to fuck you with my tongue. What color is that?” 

Tension rippled through Harry’s body at his words, all the way up to the tips of his fingers where they were just barely brushing the pillows. 

“What?” he asked.

“You’re having such a difficult time listening today. I’m going to stick my tongue inside your body, and you’re going to come again, all over the sheets. Color?”

“That’s -” Harry began tremulously. “I mean… You’ve - never done that before.” He flinched a little as Severus’ thumbs dipped between his cheeks and pulled them apart. 

“Surely you can’t think I’ve exhausted the full spectrum of sexual practices with you already,” Severus answered in a murmur, his mouth watering at the sight of Harry so very exposed. “Our first kiss was hardly two years ago, and here we stand at the precipice of a lifetime together. I am nothing if not a creative man, Potter, and with no war, I’m afraid I’ll be pointing my creativity directly at you. Now, color for something new? I recall you quite enjoyed the last new thing I did to you.” Harry hesitated, breathing hard, and Severus grabbed the back of his neck, pressing his face down into the pillows. _“Color,_ my warrior prince.” 

“What - ah. What color is it for you?” Harry's voice was muffled, but high, and Severus responded by releasing him and pressing an open-mouthed kiss right to his hole. Harry lifted his head at once with an alarmed squeak, his arms pulling down against the chains.

“Green with a white froth,” Severus said, regaining his hold on Harry’s hips. “Now tell me yours before I lose my fucking mind.”

“Oh, god,” Harry gasped. “Um - green?”

“Thank you.” Severus pressed his face between Harry’s legs, tightening his grip when he tried to shy back, and licked a wide stripe up from the base of his balls to the tip of his tailbone. And Harry, sweet Harry, made a strangled sound and spread his legs, his toes grasping visibly at the blankets. “My, my, I think he likes it,” Severus growled, and did it again, smearing saliva over Harry’s hole, using the flat of his tongue to lap at him over and over until he was whimpering in mortification, shaking with the dual desires to pull away - which Severus would not allow - and to rock back, which Severus very much _would_ allow. 

_“Fuck, oh fuck - fuck - fuck,”_ Harry was whispering, hiding his face as much as he could against the tension in the chains, and Severus - excruciatingly, unbearably hard - dug his fingernails in. Harry hadn’t even been penetrated yet, and he was already cursing that way? Merlin, Severus might just come in his trousers. _“Severus- fuck-”_

Severus hummed in reply and sucked at him, feeling Harry’s hole twitch under his mouth, and then very gently pressed the tip of his tongue inside. He doubled his grip at just the same moment, knowing Harry would probably react strongly, and he was quite right. The chains didn’t _clink_ so much as _clatter_ as Harry yanked his arms down hard. 

_“Severus, Jesus!”_ he yelped, his cock bobbing in the empty air. _“Ohhhhh god, more. More.”_

 _What a good boy,_ Severus thought, and thrust his tongue forward, bracing his hands further down on Harry’s thighs as his legs sought to kick out. _Tell me how it feels._

 _“Fuck,”_ Harry moaned, his knees sinking apart. “Oh, _yes._ Jesus _Christ-”_ The word ended in a desperate squeal, and a riptide of desire pulled unexpectedly at Severus’ spine. That was an unusual noise, and he spared one restraining hand to reach between Harry’s legs as he worked his mouth, wanting to feel how hard he was. But Harry wasn’t just hard, he was already _close -_ his balls drawn up tight to his body and his cock dripping - and feeling it, the tidal tension inside Severus redoubled, a muscle deep in his core twinging so painfully that he moaned himself. And _that,_ Harry seemed to like. A lot. 

_Two,_ Severus thought, and wrapped his fingers around Harry’s cock as he shamelessly impaled him with his tongue, pulsing, stroking, _fucking him with it,_ and Harry sobbed out his name and started to beg. And that was very good, and when the chains rattled, Severus hooked his unoccupied arm around Harry’s thighs, hauling him back, refusing to let him escape. And in holding him in place that way, his forearm just so happened to press against the head of Harry’s cock where it was weeping in his hand, trapping it against Harry’s belly, and that was it. One stroke with Severus’ tongue inside him, and fingers tight around him, and Harry’s whole body went rigid - charged and shaking with the sheer need to get the pleasure _out -_ and he was spurting over the bedclothes, his voice broken into lovely, staccato little cries.

It was quite an experience, the way Harry’s hole gripped at him, fluttering with aftershocks even as the rest of him went absolutely slack, hanging from his suspended wrists like a length of cut string.

“Mmmn,” Severus rumbled, gentling his mouth and hands alike as the last spasms rippled through him, and then pulled back with a wet kiss and pressed his lips against the base of Harry’s spine. “Good?” he asked, but Harry was not capable of speech. Or, at least… not very much.

“Fuuck…” he murmured, and then gasped in what sounded like genuine terror as Severus mouthed at him again. _“Nooo…_ no - no - no.”

“No?” Severus repeated, easing off. “Or do you mean _red?”_

Harry did not say red. He did not say anything at all that could be identified as words, so Severus took up his wand and touched it to Harry’s thigh. Harry whimpered at the light pressure, knowing what was coming, and then whimpered again at the tingle of the lubrication charm, his fingers twitching feebly in the air. Weak as it was, the movement caught Severus’ eye, and he reached out to test for temperature. But there was no need to worry. Harry’s fingers were quite warm, which meant he could take more time in the restraints, and they curled towards the touch of his hand - reaching for him - which was very sweet indeed.

“What color are you, love?” Severus asked, and a tiny sprinkle of green issued from Harry’s index finger. Three individual sparks. “Green means more, you know. Is that what you want? Your signals are quite mixed just now.” He reached down to stroke his thumb over Harry’s entrance, and it grasped at him, greedy and wet. “My God, look at you.” He stroked around the rim, and then sank inside, and despite the delicious ease of penetration, Harry shivered and shifted like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to shy back or not. “Can you take another? One more peak for my precious Potter. Would you like that?” Another scattering of sparks, but not just green that time. An incomprehensible mix of every color but red. Orange and pink and white and cyan and seafoam and magenta. But no red. “Very good. You must know by now that I don’t need a belt to make you scream. Or a switch, or a cane… unless I want to use one, of course.” He withdrew his thumb and replaced it with two fingers, slow and steady. “Oh, you feel like silk.” He crooked them with exceeding gentleness, and Harry twitched and his feet flexed. 

_“Oh, god -”_ he whispered, and then a little louder, when Severus began circling the pads of his fingers around his prostate. It was tender and swollen, and very easy to feel - the result of two orgasms followed by sustained arousal. Terribly sensitive. _“Wait - Severus, wait - I can’t- It’s - it’s too fast-”_

“Bodies are amazing,” Severus answered, exhaling slowly through his mouth. “You can come without even getting hard. Did you know that?” He pressed, and held it, and Harry let out a pathetic little cry. “Orgasms don’t require anything but stimulation, and I certainly know how to stimulate you, don’t I?” A forceful tremor ran through Harry’s body, and Severus stroked his free hand over his waist and down his spine, wanting to comfort him, even as he began to draw merciless little spirals. “I know what you like. I know your body inside and out, and I know how to reduce you to a shaking, weeping mess, if that’s what I want you to be.” He slid his unoccupied hand up into Harry’s hair, stroked against his scalp, and then made a fist. _“Isn’t that right?”_ He lifted Harry’s face out of the pillows, just as he pressed a third finger inside him. “Say, _‘yes sir.’”_

The first thing out of Harry’s mouth was a strangled partial-expletive that was much closer to pleading than cursing, and Severus held him up that way and kept on, circling his fingertips, stroking rhythmically, and dropping his voice.

 _“Say it,”_ he demanded, and Harry gasped, his body squeezing tight, releasing, and squeezing again, and he was going to come. There was no question. He was going to come again. He just needed a little push. A little _more._ “Say it, Potter.”

 _“Yes - yes sir,”_ Harry choked out, and Severus tugged his head further back to speak directly into his ear. 

“I’m hard enough to drive nails,” he hissed, rutting up against the back of Harry’s thigh, just once. “Can you feel it? That’s for you, you holy terror, and rest assured, you’re going to get it.” He pressed his fingers outward against the walls of Harry’s body, stretching him just a bit. “Do you understand me? I know you remember that night on the beach. How sensitive you were. How you _begged for my mercy._ You could hardly tolerate it, and this is going to be much worse, but that is not going to stop me. You’re _mine,_ and I want you, and I’m going to hold you down and take you.”

Another spasm rippled through Harry’s body, hard and sudden, squeezing Severus’ fingers back together, and Merlin, Severus wished he could see his face just a little bit better. 

_“Severus-”_ Harry whined. _“I can’t-”_

“You can,” Severus growled. “And you’re going to. You’re going to come on my fingers, and once you have, you're going to take my cock.” He withdrew nearly completely, teasing at his rim, and tucking his pinky in against his other fingers. “You’re going to take it for as long as I want you to take it, and as hard as I want to give it to you.” He sank back inside, and _now_ there was resistance. Tension, as Harry cried out, his hands grasping at nothing, the silver digging into his wrists, and as Severus began to pulse his fingers anew, tightening the fist in his hair, holding him still. “Oh, is that too much?” he asked, the pads of his index, middle, and ring fingers chasing each other around Harry’s prostate. Pressing, one after the other, milking another gorgeous little cry out of him. “Liar. You can take so much more than you think. But maybe I’ll put you to sleep first, if I’m feeling charitable, hm? Knock you out and use you for my pleasure?” Harry was shaking. Head to toe. Severus could feel it from inside his body. “It won’t hurt so much if you're _unconscious,_ love,” he continued. “You’ll wake up dripping come with no idea what I’ve done to you.”

Harry’s eyes rolled back. Right into his head, and as his body reflexively recoiled from the intense overstimulation, Severus just followed him forward, staying on target, as every single hair on Harry’s body stood on end, and he screamed into the pillows, and his hands seized and clutched at the air like he was being electrocuted.

 _Three,_ Severus thought. 

“Shh…” he said, relaxing the grip on Harry’s hair, smoothing his palm over the damp back of his neck and down his spine, the fingers of his other hand still knuckle-deep inside him. “Shh… shhh… what a good boy.” 

He crooked his fingertips just a bit more, triggering a muffled little shriek and then a rush of sobbing. 

“Oh, love,” he murmured, nuzzling against Harry's ear and doing it to him again, just because he could. The tiniest stroke imaginable, with just the tip of his middle finger, winning him one more desperate, tortured whine, and then a violent, full-body tremor, like maybe he’d still had a bit more left in him. Not anymore, though. “Hush. Hush. You did so well. So, so well.” 

Very gingerly, he began to ease his fingers free, watching as Harry’s body struggled to close around him, and reached for his wand. 

“No more, now,” he continued. “No more. My beautiful boy. _Fissile.”_ The bar keeping Harry’s wrists apart vanished along with the chain and duplicate bracelet, and his arms fell limp to the bedclothes. “There you are. I know. I know. Shh…” He cast a cleaning charm on the bedspread and his hands, coaxed Harry onto his side, and curled up behind him. His fingers were cold, as Severus assumed they would be, and he wrapped Harry in his arms, covering him, enveloping him, whispering sweetness into his hair as he shivered with fierce aftershocks. “Perfect,” Severus breathed, rubbing heat back into Harry’s hands and soothing the red marks left by the edges of the cuffs. “Such an angel…my good, good boy…” 

He kept up a low litany of praise as Harry’s trembling slowly subsided, the words gushing out of him, and every single one of them true. Harry was perfect, and particularly the way he was right then: the champion of all the Wizarding World, reduced to his component parts. Speechless, docile, and absolutely unable to protest even Severus’ most tender turns of phrase. He _was_ a treasure, and an angel, and the north star, and a warrior prince, and everything else, and as Harry’s body relaxed in his arms, and his heaving breaths began to level, Severus kissed his shoulder, and the nape of his neck, trying to shelve the fact that he was about to explode, and could feel his fucking heartbeat in his cock. 

“Mhn?” Harry murmured, shifting weakly, and Severus realized he was rubbing himself against the back of Harry’s thigh and stopped at once. But Harry, always a surprise, apparently did not want him to stop. “Hey…” he slurred, flexing his fingers in Severus’ grasp. “Don’t.” He turned his face towards the pillows. “You… promised.”

_Promised?_

Severus’ prick pulsed where it was trapped in his trousers, a sharp stab of arousal nearly knocking the common sense out of him. 

He hadn’t promised anything. He hadn’t meant that last bit at all, it had just been… theater, to help Harry over the edge. He knew Harry liked violence. That Harry liked threats, and orders, and violence, and Harry liked being _pushed,_ and Harry liked being _used._ But Merlin, Severus wasn’t an _animal._

“That wasn’t a promise,” he breathed. “That was a threat.”

“Yeah. Scary.” Harry pressed back again, rocking feebly against him. “Mm. You are hard. That’s mine. Give it to me. ‘M ready.”

“Lord Almighty, Harry,” Severus groaned. 

“Mmhm,” Harry agreed, and slid one bare foot against Severus’ shin, vanishing his clothes from his body. “There. C’mon. I want you to.”

Severus did not have to be told again. He pressed Harry flat onto his face and got on top of him, sparing a single brain cell to cast a second lubrication charm before nudging his legs apart. 

“What did I threaten you with?” he asked, flexing his hips forward, his cock sliding in the mess of slick. 

“Use me,” Harry answered, melting so completely that he felt more like liquid than a man. Like he’d been poured out onto Severus’ sheets. “Oh, _yesss…”_ The hiss broke around a tiny hitch of breath as the head of Severus’ cock nudged at him. He was so open after taking four fingers that it was almost enough by itself, and it took hardly any effort at all for Severus to slide inside. Into that luscious, unspeakably smooth squeeze. 

A groan forced itself out of his throat, and Harry answered with a breathless wheeze, and Severus buried his face in Harry’s black hair, scraping his wits together. “Red?” he managed to ask, suspended on a razorwire of self-control, knowing that Harry was a bundle of raw nerves with a cock inside him. “Or green? If it’s red, I can-”

“Green,” Harry interrupted, and Severus crushed his eyes closed against his worst impulses.

“Are you lying?” he demanded. “Don’t _lie to me.”_

“Green,” Harry repeated. “Green. Put me to sleep and fuck me. I’m ready.”

Severus’ eyes snapped back open. “To sleep?”

“Yeah.” Harry spread his legs a little wider, his muscles flexing and fluttering. “Like you said. Put me out and do it anyway. Fuck me anyway. Hard as you want. C’mon. Color.”

A gush of reasons why he should absolutely not do any of that poured into Severus’ mind all at once. Harry was still weak and recovering from his outburst. He was tired - _exhausted_ \- and sleeping during the day. He’d fallen asleep in the bathtub for Merlin’s sake. He was oversensitive, drowning in endorphins, and obviously not capable, at that moment, of safely making requests like _choke me unconscious_ and _fuck me as hard as you want._

 _He’s had enough,_ Severus thought. _Say red. This is what it’s for. Tell him red. Tell him no. That you want something else. His mouth, or… hands… or your own hands. Tell him._

But… it wasn’t true. Severus didn’t want something else. He wanted to hook his elbow around Harry’s neck, and squeeze. He wanted to feel the extremity of Harry’s trust - wanted to hold the delicate gift of his submission in his hands - to wallow and bathe and burrow into it. That was what he wanted, and that was why he’d said it, and red was not his color. And how could he forbid Harry to lie, if _he_ was still lying? The colors were sacred. The colors had to be the truth, no matter what that truth was, and by all that was holy, his color was not red.

“Green,” he said, and lifted himself up just enough to work one arm underneath Harry’s head. The movement pressed them more tightly together, forcing another little whine out of Harry’s mouth - he really was far too sensitive for this - and Severus carefully cradled Harry’s throat in the crook of his elbow. “You want to wake up once I’m done, is that it?” he asked. “You want to know I had my way with you while you couldn’t even feel it?”

“Please,” Harry whispered, and Severus braced one knee a little higher to control his balance, nudging Harry’s thigh out of the way.

“Say it again.”

_“Please.”_

“God, you’ll be the death of me,” Severus answered and kissed Harry’s temple, speaking against his sweat-slick skin. “Sweet dreams, my beloved.” 

He squeezed.

Against his bicep, Harry’s breath caught, and Severus began to move, taking care not to go too hard on him while he could still suffer it, timing the rock of his hips to his counting. It was important to count, no matter how needful he was himself. One must always count. A difference of mere seconds could be critical, and it didn’t matter that he could hardly hear his own thoughts over the rush of blood in his ears.

It didn’t matter. 

_One…_ he thought. _Two… three… four…_

Harry tensed, swallowing convulsively against the pressure.

_Five… six…_

A fragile squeak. Some fear, but mostly surrender.

_Seven… eight… nine…_

Out.

Like too much Dreamless Sleep.

Severus relaxed his arm and, nearly faint with sheer power, picked up his pace, fucking him far harder than he would ever have dared after so much stimulation. Surely, Harry would be begging him to stop if he could feel it. But Harry couldn’t feel anything. At all. Like a fucking _toy._

But that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? _Use me,_ was what he’d said, wasn’t it? _Do it anyway. Fuck me ANYWAY._

Well, Severus was doing it anyway. Fucking him _anyway,_ brutally deep and selfishly fast, and when Harry stirred feebly, Severus tightened his arm right back up again, and put him back down. He went easily, and Severus cursed, abruptly right on the edge. 

“One,” he snarled, keeping his grip tight, slapping his free hand against the headboard to pound into him. Harder. Harder. _Harder._ “Two… three… _fuck - four… f-five-”_ He released the pressure and jerked back, bracing both hands on Harry’s hips. _“Fuck - fuck - FUCK.”_ Sweat broke out on his body, and he sank his fingernails into Harry’s skin, raking them down, wanting there to be _marks._ Deep ones. Painful ones. Ones that would last for days - _weeks_ \- though Harry would have no memory of receiving them. And fuck, he was so close, and he knew he had to come _now, right now, right - right-_

Under him, Harry’s eyelashes fluttered, and his lips parted around the most pitiful, precious sound Severus had ever heard in his entire life, and the last thing he saw as he passed the point of no return was Harry’s hand flexing in the bedclothes. Not into a fist, not even close - he was far too weak for that - and Severus squeezed his eyes shut in an agony of pleasure. 

_“God,”_ he moaned, _knowing_ he was hurting him but doing it anyway as he rode out his peak, his hips stuttering through the last few savage thrusts, and the last twitches of animal satisfaction, and then finally, wrung out, he collapsed to his elbows, only barely able to keep from landing his whole weight onto Harry’s back. _“Oh… god.”_ Sucking in great lungfuls of air, his heart hammering, he dropped his forehead to Harry’s shoulder. “Fucking hell. Fucking… _fuck.”_

It took him a while to make his muscles so much as obey his will enough to pull out, but once he’d extricated himself, he fell to the side, his fingers and toes tingling. 

“Are you alright?” he panted, and when there was no answer, laboriously lifted his head to look at Harry’s face where it was half buried in the pillows. He was luminously relaxed, his cheeks pink and his limbs loose, his back rising and falling with slow, even breaths. “Harry?” he tried again, and when he still received not so much as a murmur in response, let his own head fall back to the pillows. “Merlin on his throne,” he said to the ceiling, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I’m going to be your husband.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HOLIDAYS, SLUTS


	16. Needs Must

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Holidays threw me for a loop!
> 
> Also, check out the podfic in the works by the amazing 221Basketcase here! https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897103/chapters/68312206

There was a little rustling sound from somewhere above him. Soft, and light, like parchment. Like dry leaves dancing in the wind, or… dragon feet on paper, and Harry turned his face into the dark hollow to his right, wanting to burrow into the warmth there.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” said a voice, and there was another rustle, and the sound of a book closing and being set aside. “I was getting a bit concerned.” A hand stroked over Harry’s cheek and into his hair, and it felt good. Warm, like the bed. Like the body beside him. Like Harry himself, right down to the marrow of his bones. “Oh, I think maybe you aren’t awake.”

“Am so,” Harry mumbled, burying his face, hiding from the orange glow trying to intrude through his closed eyelids. “Don’t… venerate me…” The hand in his hair moved gently, sliding down over his bare shoulder with a very familiar affection, and there was a low chuckle. 

“Assuming you mean don’t _rennervate_ you, I will not. But I’m afraid the _veneration_ ship has long since sailed.”

“What?” Harry asked, and groggily cracked one eye open to squint up at Severus, whose thigh was apparently what he was trying to snuggle underneath.

“I said, there’s a platter of Kreacher’s best desserts waiting for you, Mr. Potter, and I’m very sorry for knocking you out for so long, and I love you very much.”

Harry just nuzzled closer, draping an arm across Severus’ lap under the blankets and generally feeling foggy and excellent. “Love you too,” he murmured, and inhaled. Severus smelled so good. He always did. Even when he’d been all bloody and smoky, he’d smelled good underneath, and Harry had the vague thought that he might be happy staying like that forever, just wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, with his face buried against Severus’ skin.

“I haven’t taken a shower since turning you inside out, you know,” Severus said, and Harry hummed, hoping to communicate, _‘I don’t care,’_ and, _‘yes, I feel turned inside out,’_ and, _‘please speak slowly,’_ all at once. “I see,” Severus continued. “And how are you feeling? I do have to ask, though it may be a waste of breath with you clinging like a limpet.”

“I feel good,” Harry answered, and then, after a moment’s thought, “...’m really sore.” He really was. His whole body, like he’d been taken apart at the joints and rearranged. Or trampled.

“I’m sure you are. Likely for a day or two, at least.” Severus’ thumb stroked over the ball of Harry’s shoulder, drawing slow, even little circles. “So tell me, have I successfully laid your fears of tender handling to rest?” 

Harry did not even remember being afraid of that, so he supposed that was a yes. He made a yes sort of noise, and laboriously shifted closer, sliding his palm over Severus’ ribs and around towards his back, and pressed a kiss to the skin closest to his face. “...I like you,” he said stupidly, and that time Severus didn’t chuckle, he laughed.

“What flattery. I must have really taken it out of you for you to say something so intellectually incisive.”

 _“Incisive,”_ Harry muttered. “You’re so smart.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“It's just so hot.”

“Victorian botany got you going, did it?”

“Mmhmmm.” Harry’s hand found one of his favorite scars - a raised tangle between Severus’ spine and the ridge of his hip - and he traced the points. Like a starburst. “And the animals, too… you’re like an encyclopedia. Turns me-” he yawned. “-On.”

“How sweet.”

“‘S not sweet. It’s true. Almost climbed right in your lap when you said that _lumin_ thing. Wasn’t sure you’d have wanted me to, though.” 

“I don’t think the Malfoys would have appreciated that.”

Harry let out a tiny huff of laughter, and brushed the pads of his fingers across the scar, following each spoke outward from the center. Maybe it was more like a spider web… or a sort of mangled wagon wheel. 

“So…” he continued. “How are the windows?” 

“The windows?” Severus asked.

“Mmhm. Got off… too hard. Usually I break some windows. Or plates. Mirrors… and stuff. Tables.”

“Got you off _too_ hard, did I? That’s not a complaint I’ve heard before. But you haven’t damaged anything as far as I’ve seen, and the clothes you took off of me are folded on top of the dresser. Very neat, particularly as you were in no condition to be worrying about the state of my slacks.”

“I like those clothes,” Harry answered. “Didn’t want to vanish them. Boots ok?”

Severus sighed, but it sounded fond. “You and my boots,” he said. “But yes, they’re set right on top, which I appreciated. They were expensive. Now, as you’re finally awake, there’s quite a hoard of tarts here for you, which you should eat. And water, which you should definitely drink.” 

“M’kay,” Harry said, but made no move to sit up. He liked it where he was, and he was the perfect combination of exhausted and satisfied, so instead of mobilizing his arms and legs, he poked the very tips of his fingers out of the bedclothes, and tried to concentrate. It was pretty hard, as his brain felt like chewed taffy, but after a moment, it worked. A red blossom materialized out of the air, and he trapped it against Severus’ skin before it could fall. “Flower exam,” he said. “What flower? Oh, wait.” He realized he already knew. Even through the blur of his uncorrected vision, the shape was unmistakably familiar. “Tulip?”

“A tulip, indeed.” Plucking it from his fingers, Severus gave the blossom a pensive little twirl. “And what, praytell, were you thinking of just then to summon a tulip?” He dipped it down to brush across Harry’s brow. “Other than rescuing my clothes from the void, of course.”

“Just you,” Harry answered, letting his eyes drift shut again. “Flowers for Sir. What’s it mean? Not something rude.”

“No, nothing rude. In fact…” Severus trailed the smooth petals down Harry’s cheek and over the shell of his ear. “I believe you just declared your undying love for me.”

“Sounds about right,” Harry murmured. “Will you tell the story?”

“Which story?”

“You know… the story. Like the Basilisk Basil thing. Why it means what it means.”

“Ah.” Severus shifted to set the flower aside, returning his empty hand to Harry’s skin. “If you want to listen to my voice, you can request that by itself, you know.” 

“Voice please.”

“As you like,” Severus answered. “And you are correct to assume that that there is a legend, though it originated quite far from our dreary little corner of Britain. It is a tale of two lovers who longed to be together, but were forbidden.”

“Are they the Angel of Death and the Wizard Prince?” Harry asked.

“No, unfortunately these lovers lived in Persia many hundreds of years ago.”

“Oh.”

“There are several versions of the story…” Severus continued, twisting a lock of Harry’s hair through his fingers. “One tells of a princess and a stone cutter, while another, a prince and a common girl… but in every telling, it ends in death. Suicide, when the lovers are separated.”

Harry opened his eyes. “That is not what I was thinking about,” he said.

“I’m not finished,” Severus answered. “In each telling, the girl - a princess, or commoner - is hidden from her lover - a stone cutter, or prince - and he is made to believe that she has died. At first, he refuses to accept it. Refuses to believe that fate could be so cruel as to take her away, when she was all he wanted in the world. But eventually, as the weeks pass, and she fails to appear again and again, he begins to think it must be true - that nothing but death could keep her from him - and in his grief, he takes his own life. The story goes that where his blood spilled onto the dry ground, red tulips sprang forth, as an expression of his undying love for her. His wish to be with her forever, no matter the cost.”

“What were their names?” Harry asked.

“Farhad and Shirin.”

“Is it true?”

“I don’t know.”

Harry frowned and turned his ear against Severus’ side, listening to the slow, steady beating of his heart, and feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breath, and thinking. Thinking about _following,_ and about Severus standing in the Headmaster’s office with blood running in rivulets down his arm, and his face streaked with tears, begging to come with him. 

Refusing to be left behind.

“That’s dark,” he finally said.

“Are you so surprised?” Severus answered. “It did come out of you.”

“I guess.” 

Harry closed his eyes and flexed his fingers, wanting to try again. He hadn’t meant it to be about death. He was so tired of death, and there had to be some kind of feeling inside him that wasn’t about that. There just had to be, and especially now. Now that there was a different future for the both of them - a hundred futures - an infinity of possibility stretching out in all directions, and all of them away from that terrible night. Away from Severus abandoned on the floor with a note and a bandage, and away from the field hospital and all those white sheets, and away from Harry collapsed on leaf litter and surrounded by terrible enemies. 

Away from death. 

Fixing his mind on the solidity of Severus’ body beside him, and the smooth, rhythmic movement of his hand, he thought hard, bending all of his will into manifesting the emotion inside him, and when he felt the stem in his fingers, did not look to see what he’d created. 

“What’s this one?” he asked. “Is it ok?”

“Open your eyes and you’ll see.” 

There was something almost playful in Severus’ tone, and Harry looked after all, worried he’d made something weird. But in his hand he saw only a delicate spray of white blossoms around a narrow green stem. Not weird, though not something he recognized, either.

“I… don’t think I know that one,” he said.

“No?” Severus asked, taking it from his hand. “This is a favorite of childhood. Here.” He pinched the very base of one of the little flowers and carefully pulled it away from the stem, leaving the tiniest thread of white still connecting it to its neighbors. Then he swept the pad of his index finger across the filament, and offered it up. “Open,” he said. 

On Harry’s tongue, the nectar was sweet and fragrant. Lovely, and subtle, and perfumed, but perfectly unfamiliar, like a delicacy from across the world. And really, Harry had never done anything like that with _any_ flower, let alone that specific one. How was he supposed to know?

He looked up at Severus' face, and shook his head. Severus’ brow crinkled.

“It’s honeysuckle,” he said, withdrawing his finger from Harry’s mouth. “You’ve never tasted it?”

“No,” Harry answered. “But it’s good. I like it a lot.” He shifted to sit up against the pillows, moving carefully as his body protested. “Can I do one?” He held out his hands, but Severus did not hand it over. He just looked back at him, his expression opaque. Or it seemed opaque to Harry, who, of course, couldn’t see. “What?” he asked. “What did I say? Where are my glasses?”

“Nothing,” Severus said at once, reaching over to his bedside table. “It’s nothing. Honeysuckle just grows wild, and most children… well. Most people are familiar with it, that’s all.” He handed the spectacles over, and the room sharpened into focus as Harry put them on, tray of tarts and pitcher of water included. But there was a bottle and two wine glasses, too, emblazoned with the Black family crest.

“Oh, wine,” Harry said. “You didn’t say there was wine.”

“I always lead with what I hope you will choose,” Severus answered lightly, and took up his wand. “Now, what would you like first? Water, food, honeysuckle, or bordeaux?”

“Uh… water?” Harry said, and when Severus eyed him, grinned. “I’m a very good boy.”

“Yes, you certainly are,” Severus agreed, and Harry reached across him for the honeysuckle as Severus summoned the tray closer to the bed. 

“You just pulled it off, right?” Harry asked, peering at the base of one of the flowers. It seemed really fragile, like it might tear.

“Yes, but _gently._ Let me.” Severus pressed a full glass of water into Harry’s hands, taking the honeysuckle away. “You use your fingernails to separate the blossom from the stem, thusly.” He demonstrated the technique. “And the style - that little white bit, there - draws out the nectar. Do you see it?” He angled the cutting so the drop of sweetness caught the light, sparkling like a clear jewel. “Go on, before it falls.”

Harry caught the nectar with his finger, and licked it off. “These have to mean something nice,” he said. “Not _suicide.”_

“Tulips do not mean suicide,” Severus corrected him. “They just _involve_ suicide, and are considered very romantic. Honeysuckle, however, symbolizes devotion. Simple, and no gore.” He took Harry’s hand, and kissed it. “And likewise, of course. The devotion, not the lack of violence. Now, drink your water. I dehydrated you.”

***

“Check mate,” Draco said, and Narcissa sighed. He’d won three in a row, and they’d killed another bottle, and picked over a charcuterie, and it was getting late. Draco hadn’t stayed up so long with her for a while, and she had a small inkling that it was because he didn’t want to go upstairs until he was sure that Severus and his world-saving future-fiancé were done with whatever they were doing to each other. But that was all well and good, because Severus had told her not to leave her son unattended, and she was planning on taking that suggestion seriously for as long as Draco allowed it. She didn’t know everything he’d gone through, of course - perhaps not even half - but she knew enough, and she’d die herself before letting him languish when it could be prevented.

“I think that dragon must be whispering secrets to you,” she said. “Which is cheating, my darling.” The paper beast on his shoulder sprayed rubbish at her. “Well!”

“See, it understands english,” Draco said. “It can tell you’re _insulting your only son._ Care for one more? Maybe you’ll finally win.” He started setting the board to rights, and Narcissa watched him meticulously replace each piece in the exact center of their appropriate square, considering her reply. Her son was not particularly like her husband, but neither of them had liked feeling _fussed over._

“You know, I’m actually stretched a bit thin,” she said, lightly tapping her fingertips around her eyes like she was trying to coax away the puff of fatigue. “That memory-extraction is nothing to sneeze at.”

“No,” Draco answered, offering a pawn to his dragon to be investigated. “It certainly isn’t.”

Narcissa hummed in agreement, and popped one last olive into her mouth, allowing the silence to lengthen. “I was wondering…” she finally began. “Would you mind terribly staying with me tonight? There’s plenty of space. I daresay my bed is nearly large enough for five. Or seven, if it’s seven of us.” She laughed gently, and when Draco raised an eyebrow at her, looked away with a small, self-deprecating smile. “I’m afraid the last good night's sleep I’ve had in ages was in your dormitory at school. I’ve been having… nightmares, you know, and I’ve a feeling they might be rather worse tonight.” She looked back up at him. “Would you mind? Humor your mother.” 

“Oh,” Draco answered, and glanced shiftily at the stairwell. “Of… course I don’t mind. I’ve been a bit - I mean. Certainly, mother. Let me just… get some nightclothes. Kreacher?” 

A _pop_ like a soap bubble touching down on a tablecloth. 

“Yes, Master Malfoy?”

“We’re finished here. Will you take this away?”

“Yes, Master Malfoy. Would Mistress and Master care for a nightcap? Hot chocolate, or perhaps a digestif?”

Draco looked at her questioningly, and she shook her head. “No, thank you,” he said. “That will be all.”

***

The next morning - Sunday, the tenth of May - was a postal event all over the country, as Severus took advantage of Harry’s truly extravagant lie-in to draft and send out his letters to Lee Jordan, Hermione Granger, and Madam Rosmerta, as well as one to a little hole in the wall in Knockturn Alley, and one to Septamous Secrulpur’s Potions Storeroom. Charlie Weasley contributed to the owl-traffic as well, posting a package and fresh letter towards Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, but nothing came close to the ominous cloud of delivery owls that issued from the Daily Prophet at first light, each one bearing a very special weekend edition. It was thick, and carried a full-color, half-page photo splash. Eye Catching. Something Rita’s editor was sure no one could overlook. 

Kingsley Shacklebolt was at his kitchen table having breakfast when he received his copy, unfurled it, and immediately spluttered tea onto the delivery owl. 

Minerva McGonagall opened hers in her office after corralling a fresh delivery of howlers, and though she did not know it, those were some of last ones she would ever collect addressed to Severus Snape, and she was soon to find out just what it was like fielding reams of mail for a portrait that she refused to speak to. 

At the Burrow, Molly Weasley was discovered by her husband with the kettle whistling violently on the stove and her nose glued to the A section, and when he spoke to her, she quite burst into tears. 

“Merlin, Molly-” Arthur gasped, waving his wand to turn off the heat. “What’s the matter?’

“He was so _young!”_ she shrieked in answer. “He - he- he was- SO-”

“Who?” He embraced her and took the paper away. “Harry?”

“N-no,” Molly choked out, burying her face into his chest. _“S-severus!_ He was so - so _young.”_

“What about Severus?” Arthur asked, looking down at the paper over Molly’s shaking back. “What did - Merlin’s drawers. He _didn’t.”_

“What’s that, dad?” Charlie asked, coming down the stairs, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Mum? What’s the matter? What’s happened? Oh, _shit.”_

Further to the south, in the Tonks family home, Remus Lupin did not see his copy right away. He’d been up all night with his son, who was a fussy, colicky, unhappy baby, and close as it was to the full moon, he’d passed out at once upon finally handing him off to his Mother-in-law Andromeda. But she _did_ see the paper, and as the mother of an Order Member, she knew Harry, and as one of the Black sisters, she knew Severus Snape. And so, absently bouncing Teddy on her knee, she began to read, and became so engrossed so quickly that her porridge boiled over onto the floor and scorched itself onto her cooktop. 

In London, Gregory Cephous Philip Wagner Gareg the Fourth did not take the Prophet at his home, but instead preferred to catch up with the day’s news at his desk. And so, that bright Sunday morning, he apparated to the Ministry in good spirits, blissfully unaware of the sensation sweeping the country. He greeted the Aurors that greeted him - a bit of a skeleton crew on Sunday morning - and took the coffee his secretary had ready for him, opening the door to his corner suite only to find that one of his most experienced Aurors was already there waiting for him. And Walter Perkin certainly did not make a habit of working Sundays. Senior Aurors rarely did.

“Good Morning,” he said, and then, at the expression on Perkin’s face, “what’s happened?”

Wordlessly, the Auror held out a copy of the newspaper, letting it unfurl for Gregory to see.

 _‘THE CHOSEN ONE’S CHOSEN ONE,’_ was the punchy, eye-catching headline, above a gigantic magical photograph of Potter resting his head on Snape’s shoulder and lacing their fingers together. Gregory watched, shocked, as the boy’s thumb stroked tenderly over the back of the man’s hand, his mouth unmistakably forming the words, _‘I love you.’_

He snatched the paper from Perkin’s hands. 

_‘A Daily Prophet Exclusive,’_ he read. _‘Part One of Six, by best-selling author and award-winning field reporter, Rita Skeeter.’_

Dropping his coffee in horror, he wrenched it open. 

***

Kingsley floo’d straight to his office as soon as he was dressed, leaving his uneaten breakfast on the table. He was perfectly aware that he hadn’t asked either Harry or Severus to refrain from talking to the press - let alone forbidden it - but he certainly hadn’t expected to _need to._ And Rita Skeeter herself? After that first article, he would have been less surprised to find her body in a ditch. Or just her _head._ But it wasn’t the article itself that was troubling him. It was a far cry from Rita’s usual ungodly rubbish, and if it was a bit dramatic, it was also excellent - the kind of raw, front-line drama that usually only came to light years upon years after the events in question - and as far as he was concerned, Severus deserved to be known. 

The problem was, if Kinglsey had learned anything at all during his career as an Auror, and during his so far brief tenure as Minister of Magic, it was that law enforcement _hated_ the press. It was true even in the best of times, but particularly when the coverage was related to ongoing investigations, and these were not the best of times, in any case. The DMLE was going to be angry, there was no question, and that anger was complicated by the unfortunate but undeniable fact that there were still Deatheater sympathizers festering inside the Ministry. It just wasn’t possible that _all_ of them had been Imperiused, and if Kingsley had no way of rustling them out just yet, that didn’t mean they weren't _there._ And then there was Gregory. What a mistake appointing him had turned out to be. Though in Kingsley’s defense, he’d been in a hurry, and it just hadn’t occurred to him that someone so experienced could hold onto a grudge for seventeen years.

All of that, then, made for a very tenuous and explosive situation, and now the Prophet was publishing a six-part lit fuse. No matter that only the first bit had been released. No matter that the story ended with the Prophecy, and so did not include anything from recent hostilities or any DMLE names. The tone was breathless, almost worshipful, and he needed to remind the DMLE generally, and Gregory in particular, that though Severus and Harry had indeed broken in and humiliated them all on the national stage, and Severus had evaded prosecution once already, the pair of them were _not on trial,_ and were not to be _put on trial,_ and were, in fact, to be left the fuck alone. As clearly stated in the legally binding document that Kingsley had personally strong-armed Gregory into recusing himself from the authority to sign. 

Not that anyone was likely to dare make so much as a nasty face at Harry, of course. But Severus? Poor sod deserved a break, not an exciting new set of vendettas.

Kingsley tapped his foot as he waited for the lift, his copy of the Prophet crushed under his arm, wondering if he should have just taken the stairs. Bloody lift was always so _slow,_ and the security measures put in place after Harry’s most recent infiltration somehow made it worse while simultaneously being completely useless. It wasn’t as if secondary and tertiary ID checks could so much as delay Harry Potter if he wanted in. He’d broken in when he was fifteen, for Merlin’s sake, and he hadn’t been a bloody deity, then. He’d just been a boy.

Stupid, and a waste of funds, besides.

_“Hem hem.”_

He stopped his tapping. “Good morning, Dolores.”

“Good morning, Minister,” Umbridge answered girlishly. “I thought today was your day off.” She tittered, and adjusted the tartan headband nestled in her mousy brown hair. 

“Yes, it is,” Kingsley answered. “But when needs must.”

“Of course.”

The chime sounded, and when the doors slid open, Kingsley gestured her inside, and she smiled at him in what was evidently meant to be an appealing sort of way before stepping through the gate. 

“Floor?” he asked, joining her.

“Two, please,” she answered, and he obligingly pressed the button for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. “Thank you. I’ve some paperwork to file with Gregory, you know. He requested it specifically, and he’s such a dear, I just had to do it right away. What an asset to the Department that man is. Especially after… well.” She tittered again. “All of the personnel changes.”

Kingsley glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and then looked straight ahead. 

“Indeed,” he intoned. 

He did not like Dolores Umbridge, and he did not like her twee headbands, and he did not like her _giggling,_ but, like his Aurors, and so many others that had spent the last year of the war terrorizing Muggles and Muggle-borns, she claimed to have been under the Imperius, and there was no legally-accepted way to prove she hadn’t been. Particularly not after the losses sustained by the Deatheaters. No way to get a confession out of a corpse, and there were too many lost wands, and too many people had cast that particular unforgivable curse on each other just to stymie veritaserum, even though veritaserum was nearly as illegal. And she was a _public servant,_ in any case. Or so the old guard insisted. 

He shifted his weight, irritated. 

He’d never wanted to be Minister. He despised politics in general, and political maneuvering in particular, and he rather hadn’t anticipated there being quite so much of the latter in the immediate aftermath of a war. Yet there they were.

_Ding._

_“Level two,”_ said the voice. _“Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.”_ The lift doors clattered open, and Kingsley gave a small bow, indicating that Dolores should precede him. He was rather deeply hoping she would stop at the secretary’s desk, but alas, they both seemed to be going directly to Gregory’s office.

“Good Morning, Clarissa, Hawthorn, and - oh, who is that? Frieda? Good morning!” Umbridge said, waving to a cluster of Aurors all huddled over a single desk. 

“Morning Dolores,” Clarissa Whitestone called in answer, giving a cursory nod before turning back to whatever they were scrutinizing. Kingsley couldn’t see what it was, but he thought he might have an idea, and he strode directly to the Head’s Office and knocked smartly, pushing open the door without waiting for an answer. 

“He’ll always be #27189 to me, no matter what rubbish Dumbledore tried to feed us,'' Gregory was muttering, bracing his hands on his own desk and apparently expecting someone other than the Minister, as he did not look up. “That was the filthiest exoneration in history. Worse than Lucius by _far._ But I think we might be able to get him for statutory rape. The bastard. There’s no pardon for _that_ anywhere in Shaklebolt’s bloody plea deal, and there is _no possible way_ Potter was older than fifteen when he got his claws in. He might have even been _fourteen._ I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Definitely not expecting the Minister.

  
  



	17. #27189

Kingsley cleared his throat loudly, and Gregory and Perkin both straightened up and looked around. “Oh!” Perkin said. “Good morning, Minister Shaklebolt.”

“I take it you’ve been reading the Prophet,” Kingsley answered pointedly. 

“Quite a sensationalist story!” Dolores said from the doorway. “I don’t believe a word of it, of course. Mr. Snape worked under me for an entire year, and that man certainly wasn’t doing anything more significant than skulking in the dungeons. Quite a delusion of grandeur, really. Pathetic.” She _tittered._ “Good Morning. I’ve your documents, Gregory.” She moved past Kingsley, only to step directly in a puddle of coffee with her glossy, buckled pumps. “Oh, goodness. What a mess! I’ll send Maintenance up right away.” She batted her eyelashes. “Will there be anything else? A fresh coffee, or… a pastry? _Pain au chocolat?”_

“No, thank you, Dolores,” Gregory answered, shifting back a fraction of an inch. “I’ve already eaten. But I appreciate you looking into this matter for me. I’m quite swamped, and my agents…” He gestured vaguely at Perkin, who grimaced. “Very busy.” 

“My pleasure.” Umbridge gave a little curtsy that put Kingsley in mind of a constipated bulldog. “You work so hard. Do let me know if there’s anything else you need.” She nodded to Kingsley. “Minister.”

“Dolores.” 

He waited for her to click out into the hall and then closed the door behind her, only barely restraining the urge to slam it, and turned back to the Department Head. 

“What documents did you request?” he asked. 

“Background information,” Gregory answered dismissively, and, quite ignoring him, spread out the lot, pushing the newspaper to the edge of his desk and out of the way. Kingsley could see he’d apparently gotten to page four before being overcome with fury, which did not surprise him at all. For though the cover photo by itself likely would have done the job, the Prophet had deemed two other images meaningful enough to take up narrative space that might otherwise have been filled with more juicy snippets about coming of age under the thumb of the Dark Lord. The first, on page two, was a still photo - a _teaser -_ of Harry holding a wand between his index finger and thumb, with the cut, _‘Harry Potter with the Elder Wand (To be explored in part 5).’_ The second, on page four, was animated, and depicted Harry gazing adoringly into Severus’ eyes. 

How in the name of the Golden Quill Awards Rita Skeeter had gotten them to sit for an interview without being eviscerated, Kingsley could not begin to guess, but it was obviously genuine. The images were not artists' renderings, they were memory captures, and he’d seen Harry look at Severus just that way more than once. 

Really, Kingsley had seen all he needed to see of their relationship during the final battle. Severus’ speech in the field hospital notwithstanding, Kingsley could recognize terror when he saw it, and he had never in his life seen terror like Severus pelting through mortal danger, calling and calling for Harry, with no regard for his own safety. And Kingsley wasn’t an idiot, either. He knew that there were such things as shallow infatuation, and obsession, and lust, and Stockholm syndrome, and war comfort. He knew about grooming, manipulation, abuse, coercion, and trauma bonding. He knew about all of that and more. He was an officer of the law, wasn’t he? A veteran. He _knew._ But he also knew about other things, and what he’d seen in Severus that night, and what he could see in Harry’s eyes on page four - that was one of those _other things._ And aside from all that, he was of the well-informed opinion that anyone Harry saw fit to rest his head on was good enough, and particularly if it was someone that took a burden or two off of that boy’s incredibly narrow shoulders. 

But no one was trying to convince _him,_ were they? He’d already read the paper, and looked at the pictures, and that was not what was concerning him, now.

Peering over Perkin’s shoulder at the other documents, he saw just what he’d been afraid he would see: Dolores had delivered a pile of records from Severus’ Ministry files. Maps, crime scene photos, transcriptions of his interrogations and Albus’ defence statements, along with the research that had gone into the warrant for his arrest during the first war, and the medical records of the Aurors unfortunate enough to get that particular assignment. 

Kingsley had already been a middling field officer back then, and that _‘slippery cunt’s bungled arrest’_ and subsequent release had been one of the many sources of impotent spleen amongst his fellows. He’d been quite incensed about it himself, back in those days. Dozens of Deatheaters had escaped prosecution that year, and the whole DMLE had thought Severus was just one more. And one of the worst, too. A Lieutenant, if Deatheaters had used such titles. The right hand of the Dark Lord, walking free, and straight into a _school?_ Of course they were angry, and at the time, it had been justified. But what a pity that so many people had such trouble integrating new information into their brains. Like the fact that Severus Snape had literally cut the Dark Lord’s throat in front of a hundred witnesses, and then _Avada’d_ him, and then lit him on fire. 

Well, maybe Harry had done the fire. That bit hadn’t been terribly clear. 

“Is that complaint in here?” Gregory asked. “I specifically requested it. She knows nearly all of the Governors. Do you see it? I already had all of this rubbish from ‘81.”

“I’m looking,” Perkin answered. “Clarissa usually does the paperwork. Let’s see. Is this…? No, no. That’s intake.” He tossed a packet out of the way, and Kingsley caught it before it could slide to the floor. He’d never seen Severus’ arrest record, having just taken Albus’ word for it, and he flipped the cover open with interest, only to find himself immediately and inappropriately delighted by the very first page.

It was Severus’ mugshot, and there the man was, barely out of his teens, radiating malice like a scornful sun and sneering back at the camera with two fingers held up. His nails were varnished black, and his face was bruised and bloody, and he looked like a damn hooligan. Knowing the adult Severus as well as he did, the sheer riff-raffishness of the picture was shocking, and for a moment Kingsley seriously considered nicking it to give to Harry. Now that Harry knew about that arrest, it was like a keepsake. 

_Look at your feared and distinguished partner, Severus Snape,_ he thought. _Giving the V to a clot of Aurors with a number on his chest. Looks rather like he got slammed into the floor, doesn’t he? What a legacy._

Harry would love it. 

And his birthday was coming up, too. Eighteen. Maybe once Gregory was slapped back down - which was imminent - Kingsley could find the original and have it framed. If it was in color, that would be even better. Blood spatter was so much less striking in black and white. Yes, he could frame it, and send it with a nice bottle of something so Severus didn’t explode. 

What did they drink? Red?

“If we can get memories from Potter, maybe we can do it that way,” Perkin said, and Kingsley tuned right back in. “Legilimency, or just… I don’t know. Even an interview might be enough if we can match the timeline. Easy to prove someone was under sixteen if there’s a marker event. How sophisticated can he be? He’s a child.”

“I wouldn’t underestimate him at this point,” Gregory answered, speaking what might have been the first intelligent words of the conversation. “I doubt he’d just _blurt it._ Snape would have trained him to keep it a secret, and Potter won’t speak to any law enforcement, anyway. We should try for someone else. Someone more… sympathetic. There have to have been other people involved. Someone must have seen _something.”_

“The other Professors in that Order, maybe? I think there were several. Albus always did mix his pursuits.”

“Pardon me,” Kingsley interjected, but they paid him no mind. Almost like he wasn’t their bloody boss and the leader of the Wizarding World. And a member of ‘that Order,’ too.

“They couldn’t have _known,_ could they?”

“I can’t imagine anyone with a single eyeball could stand back and just- oh, here it is. Hm. How old was Potter on Christmas in ‘96? Sixteen? Fuck. Maybe there’s something else.” Gregory began rifling through the pages, each one marked with the Hogwarts crest. “Some kind of… who filed the original complaint?”

“Gentlemen,” Kingsley tried.

“I mean…” Perkin mused. “They’re still together, now. If it’s magical, or chemical, we could run blood-work on the boy. Check for traces of the core spectrum of ingredients the way we did during that human trafficking bust in ‘85. That case closed in less than a week once we took that avenue.”

“That’s right! And will-bending potions need to be administered at regular intervals to work like _this.”_ Gregory made a disgusted sound and gestured to the newspaper. “No one in the history of humanity has ever looked at that snake that way of their own free will. It might even be the _Imperius._ There is precedent. We could run diagnostics on Snape’s wand-”

“PARDON ME.”

“-send an Auror Detail to his personal laboratory at that school if the boy won’t allow us to examine him.”

“Hazardous Materials, maybe. Or Magical Cleanup. There have to be residual-”

 _“SILENCIO,”_ Kingsely barked, and immediately, the two men turned to look at him, shocked. “Thank you.” Kingsley lowered his wand. “I am the Minister of Magic, as I think you are aware, so if you would be so kind as to allow me the momentary courtesy of your attention, I would be forever grateful.” He stopped, as if waiting for them to agree, which of course they couldn’t. “Excellent. Now listen carefully. Severus Snape has immunity from prosecution, which you both know perfectly well, and aside from that, I am absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure that Harry Potter was over the legal age of consent upon entering into that relationship, and is not under any pressure to remain, magical or otherwise.” He wasn’t actually sure of that first part. He’d have to ask. “This avenue of investigation is an offensive mistake, and I will not permit you to pursue it. Severus signed my deal in good faith, under the assumption that we all did as well, and I will hardly stand by and watch you two violate that trust after the service he provided to our people. This -” He held up Severus’ intake document. “Is not to be repeated. He was undercover in 1981 just as he was the moment he ended the war, and the miscarriages of justice I’ve witnessed are not to be repeated. No Sirius Blacks. No Stan Shunpikes. No innocent Muggle-borns. No scapegoats handed to the Dementors to assuage our delicate egos. There will be no _reprisals_ of _any kind_ out of my Administration AT ALL, is that clear? You are officers of the law, not agents of a _fascist state.”_ He paused, disgusted. “Not anymore, anyway.”

Gregory and Perkin looked at each other, held in perfect silence by his magic. 

“I asked you to come out of retirement as a personal favor, Gregory,” Kingsley continued coldly. “In a bid to prevent this kind of institutional prejudice. I thought you, of all people, were above it. But obviously that was an error, and at this point, I’ve half a mind to dissolve the whole department and start again with fresh academy recruits.” He turned to Walter. “And you, Perkin. I wasn’t aware _you_ had a history with Severus that would result in a career-ruining _vendetta,_ particularly as I’m quite sure he hasn’t the slightest idea who you even are.” That was a guess, too, but Perkin raised his hands and shook his head all the same. “You mean you _aren’t_ nursing a decades-old slight of some kind? No? Then _what are you thinking?_ Don’t make the mistake of believing that I’m above sacking every single Auror currently employed and starting again, because I am not. And if _you,”_ he pointed at Gregory, “infect the Academy with this sort of petty, vindictive, revenge-seeking nonsense, it is _you_ who will set the example for your successors by returning immediately to retirement. Any questions?” He twitched his wand. _“Finite.”_

“I - But… Minister,” Gregory began as his voice was restored, gesturing weakly to the Prophet. “Did you read this? Snape killed Rufus. _Tortured him_ to _death._ And - and Albus. And he-” he made an abortive movement towards the scars on his face. “He - They’re making him sound like a hero.”

Kingsley just stared him down. “If you really have concerns unrelated to personal slights, feel free to take a stroll down to records and ask for a viewing. I’d recommend file number 715231: _‘Shacklebolt, Kingsley: S. Snape and H. Potter disarm and execute TMR/LV.’_ You might find some clarity there. Or, at the very least, some perspective.” He glared at Perkin, who was standing stiff as a mannequin, and back at Gregory, who looked deflated. “I’m very sorry about your scars,” he continued. “And you have my sympathies for your pain and suffering. But I left my career as an Auror to fight in this war, because the Aurors were on the wrong side. I know you retired in protest, and I respect that, but this time was different. I was _there._ I _saw it,_ and I am telling you, you don’t know anything.” He turned away. He had a letter to write. “If the Prophet is making Severus Snape look like a hero, it is not because they’ve been compromised.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “It’s because he is one.” 

***

“Look! Persephone!” Harry said, pointing out the window. “Wow, that owl is fast. She just left twenty- oh.”

“Hm?” Severus did not look up. He was at the coffee table with his third cup of tea, attempting rather fruitlessly to arrange his collected memories chronologically. It wasn’t easy, as he didn’t know the exact timeline of some events, and he was considering giving that up and just organizing by witness the way they’d been extracted. He’d have to separate out Narcissa’s Auror-related memories in any case, as they weren’t directly relevant to her defence, except to generally attenuate the reliability of the DMLE’s testimony. If the department was full of Voldemort supporters, that would be a bad look for the Ministry, indeed. Might even invalidate their whole prosecution, which would certainly make things tidier.

Wait. Persephone? 

He looked up. 

“What’s that, love?”

“Nevermind,” Harry answered. “It’s not her. Just a barn owl. Oh, and another one! Ooh.” He pressed his face against the glass, and Severus got up and joined him at the window just as a pair of owls alighted on the fence outside. One was, indeed, plain, but the other was even larger than the owl Draco had chosen, with great crests of feathers on its head. It was quite distinguished, and he recognized it immediately. 

“Ah, that’s from the Minister,” he said. 

“Kingsley?” Harry asked. “Uh oh. Ten sickles says we’re in trouble.”

***

Draco had seen the paper first that morning, as he’d been out and about before everyone else by a wide margin. He tended to do that, and by the time Harry came downstairs and sat himself very gingerly at the table, Draco was so focused on the Prophet that he hadn’t so much as twitched. He’d given the sports section to his dragon, who was rolling luxuriantly across a picture of the Holyhead Harpies, while Draco had his entire face hidden by the main section, leaving Harry looking straight at a picture of himself. Himself, and his soulmate, in Rita Skeeter’s obnoxiously glittering kitchen.

“Aw,” he said when Severus sat beside him, sliding one palm down his back. “Look at my face. I’m in _love.”_ He pointed to the picture, and Severus tilted his head to get a better view.

 _“The Chosen One’s Chosen One,”_ he read. “How trite. Oh, my, look at your hand. So sweet. I think my heart may just claw itself out of my chest.”

“Violent,” Harry laughed, and Draco scoffed, slapped the paper down, and glared at the pair of them. 

“You were a traitor when I was _eight months old?”_ he demanded. “Eight _MONTHS?”_

“Oh, let’s see,” Severus began contemplatively. “When’s your birthday?”

“The fifth of _June,”_ Draco spat back, like Severus really should have known that already, and it was quite a _faux pas_ not to. 

“Oh, that’s so soon!” Harry interjected, just as Severus said, _“six_ months, then,” and Harry had never seen Draco throw something before, even if it was a wadded up napkin and his dragon intercepted it. Seemed like he was feeling a little bit better. Like maybe he slept. 

***

“I do not bet, Potter,” Severus answered. “Perhaps it's a _Mazel Tov_ for our intense and unshakeable bond. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He opened the window, letting the pair of owls inside just as a third appeared around the corner. That one was much smaller than the others, but it’s extravagant plumage more than made up for it, and so did the fact that it was wearing what looked like a tiny waistcoat and hat. It seemed to be in a hurry, too, as it swooped right past the first two arrivals - apparently unaware that one of them belonged to the Minister - and fluttered to the back of an armchair, where it proceeded to hoot a little tune. Standing on one foot, and then the other, and then the first again in time to its song, it tilted its head this way and that and turned in a circle. “How obnoxious,” Severus said. “Relieve that one of its parcel so it leaves.”

Harry just laughed, and took the tiny box adhered to it’s little outfit. “Nice dance,” he said. “Good job.” The little owl hooted again, repeating it’s jig in the other direction, and Severus glared at it, but then stopped glaring when he noticed that Kingsley’s owl was also glaring. He narrowed his eyes, instead, and the barn owl, apparently just as unimpressed, made a little trilling noise and rustled its feathers. 

“Oh, be patient,” Harry told it. “I think these are treats.” He held the box in both hands, squinted, and it popped out of its miniature state. Treats, indeed. _“‘Arnaldo’s Owl Apéritifs,’”_ he read. “Haa. Everything Draco buys is so posh. I bet his mum ends up in evening gowns and stoles.” He cracked the seal and poured a handful of the contents into his palm, only to find that each treat was individually shaped into a miniscule owl. “Oh _no,”_ he laughed. “Owl cannibalism.”

Severus glanced cornerwise at him. “You’re in quite an excellent mood today,” he said, unsealing the scroll from the Minister. 

“Am I? Wonder why,” Harry answered with a sly grin, and lifted the hem of his t-shirt to reveal the very tips of four pink scratches just peeking out of the waistband of his jeans, each one topped with a livid red crescent where Severus’ nails had dug in. “Ouch.”

“My apologies,” Severus answered evenly. “I got excited.”

“I know you did.” Harry tossed one tiny treat-owl to each full-sized one. “Or, at least, I assumed. I don’t really remember getting those.”

“No, you weren’t meant to.”

“No?” Harry set the treats aside, brushed off his hands, and stepped closer, pushing the Minister’s letter out of the way. “How dastardly of you.” He traced one finger through the buttons on Severus’ chest. “Hurting me that way when I couldn’t even appreciate it.”

“Oh, I think you’re appreciating it now,” Severus purred back, wrapping his free arm around Harry’s waist. “And you must know by this point that I’m a villain, love. Absolutely the worst sort, and certainly not to be trusted with someone as innocent as the Chosen One. I understand he’s pure as the driven snow.”

“Like a saint,” Harry murmured, tipping his chin up for a kiss, which Severus gave to him. “I felt them in the shower, you know,” he continued. “While you were so busy writing all those incredibly important letters instead of coming in with me.”

“My priorities are obviously severely skewed,” Severus answered. “Did the water sting?”

“Badly,” Harry whispered, but then he smiled, a mischievous little sparkle in his eyes. “Actually, that reminds me. Now that you have colors, too… you have to debrief. So tell me, Mr. Snape, how was it for you?” 

Severus spread his fingers across Harry’s waist, brushing them deliberately over the scratches through his clothes. He hadn’t drawn blood, but it had been a very close matter, and he’d carefully cleaned each one before sending for food and water the night before. They were still raw, he was sure, and he was even more sure when Harry’s breath caught in his throat at the touch of his hands.

“How was it for me?” he began archly, stroking his thumb just under the fabric of Harry’s shirt, wanting to make it worse. “I suppose that depends on what precisely you’re asking me. How was it listening to you beg, perhaps? I am so very fond of that. Or… how was it tearing that last orgasm out of you? Hearing you scream, and watching your fingers twitch? Oh, perhaps you're asking me how it felt to hold your life in my hands like a fragile bird. Am I close?”

Harry swallowed. 

“Yeah…” he said. “All - all of that.”

Severus pursed his lips in a mockery of deep thought. “Hm… let me think… How to phrase it… Ah, here we are: A wise philosopher once said, _‘that was so hot I’ll think about it in the shower for a thousand years.’”_ Abruptly, Harry laughed, and Severus kissed his scar _. “‘Stupid fucking question.’”_ He let go, and turned back to his scroll. 

“Gonna get my name tattooed across your chest?” Harry asked. _“Property of the Boy Who Lived?_ Oh, no. Wait. _The Chosen One’s Chosen One._ Your new title.”

“Absolutely,” Severus answered. “I’ll get it inked across my…” he trailed off, and frowned. Kingsley’s letter wasn’t at all what he’d expected, though perhaps that was his own short-sightedness. “...heart. Hm. I think I just lost out on ten sickles.” 

“Yeah?” Harry asked, relieving the final owl of its burden and not sounding terribly concerned. “What’s it say? Other than, _‘don’t talk to reporters, you insufferable fools.’”_

“It’s from Kingsley, not me,” Severus muttered. What did the letter say? It said, in a roundabout way, _‘the Head of the DMLE is out for revenge, and he thinks you are a predator, and would like to see you in prison for it,’_ and, _‘is there anyone else who might be motivated to assist in that endeavor?’_ Very rude, as there were, of course, many, many people who still thought that, and still more who would likely jump at the chance to put him behind bars.

He looked at Narcissa’s memories still sparkling on the coffee table. What fun to be the target of both sides. Genuine law enforcement, and hideous, two-faced, pureblood supremacists. And Gregory. 

“Sorry,” Harry laughed. “Suppose Kingsley doesn’t use the word _‘insufferable?’”_ Severus glanced over at him stroking the barn owl’s head, and then back down at the letter, wondering how serious Harry had been when he’d said, _‘the next person that calls you a rapist is going to end up a scorched skeleton.’_ He’d sounded pretty serious, and he’d been gushing poison into the groundwater, and shooting embers from his fingertips. Blighting trees. How powerful was his new ‘venting’ technique?

“It seems the DMLE is perturbed by the Prophet’s fawning coverage of my very tragic boyhood,” Severus answered lightly. “Which I rather expected. I think I may be in for a good magisterial scolding if they can get at me.” 

“Pff,” Harry scoffed. “No one can scold _you._ Not even the Minister of Magic. You’re like the Emperor of Scold.”

“I believe it’s our dear friend Gregory Gareg the Fourth who’d like to have a go, actually. Apparently he’s still quite irritated with me for cutting him to ribbons and leaving him to suffer, and has vindictively buried himself in my arrest record.” 

He’d have to answer right away, although he did not, of course, care in the slightest that Kingsley had ensconced one of his least favorite people in a position of senior law enforcement. He was not even remotely afraid of Gregory. In fact, he was relatively sure that Gregory was pants-soilingly afraid of _him._ But Kingsley had mentioned the Board of Governors, and if there was one person who could really cause trouble, it was Remus. Remus, whom they’d neither seen nor heard from since Severus had offered Bellatrix to him on a platter: bleeding, and shrieking, and ready to be executed.

Hopefully Remus remembered that, though Severus supposed it boded well that he’d declined to comment to the Prophet once already. Maybe he’d finally managed to… move past… his… feelings.

Severus grimaced a little to himself.

A greater comfort was the fact that no amount of legitimate inquiry would turn up anything but a reciprocal relationship between two individuals above the legal age of consent. Just… one of them was an authority figure, and … it was… what would be a diplomatic way to put it? Passionate? 

Not illegal, anyway.

“Well good fucking luck to him,” Harry said. “Actually, I’d like to see _Gregor the Great Gregory Gorgus_ give it a good college try. That would be really - Oh, _shit!”_

“What?” Severus asked, looking up in alarm to see a wide, narrow box in Harry’s hands, apparently delivered by the final owl. It was neatly wrapped in glossy silver paper and tied with a green bow, and Harry held up the envelope, his expression elated.

“It’s for _Draco,”_ he hissed, and then turned his head. “DRACOOOOOOO.”

Draco twitched, his new barriers shattering to splinters in his mind, and smacked his head back against the tiles with a snarl of frustration. Just what, exactly, did a man have to do to get some _fucking privacy_ in that occursed house? Merlin. He hadn’t had any time to patch himself up the day before - not with Harry and then his mother talking to him all bloody evening - and when he’d agreed to lay down with his mother, she did that _thing._ Patting his head that way, like she used to when he was little. He’d been hoping to wait her out and then creep into the hallway or something, but being touched like that was like being dosed with a bloody horse tranquilizer.

He’d woken up, of course - and multiple times - but he hadn’t been able to concentrate even then. Not with her _breathing_ right there next to him, and it had been so warm, and he’d been _so tired…_ he just hadn’t crept out. Which was annoying, because he really had meant to. And then, of course, when he’d gotten up early and snuck downstairs, he’d had the Prophet dropped into his lap almost immediately, and what was he supposed to do? _Not_ read it? It had Harry and Snape on the bloody cover! And then the uncontrollable _lovebirds_ had finally come down, and he’d had so many questions, and hadn’t gotten even half of them answered, and then _finally_ after handing that mad, mad article off to his mother, he’d retreated to the bathroom to get some solitude. And NOW! Now Harry was _hooting for him._

“WHAT?” he shouted back.

 _“There’s a package here for you!”_ came Harry’s distant response. _“A PRETTY one.”_

“A package?” Draco repeated, and his dragon rustled its wings where it was perched on the faucet. It had very obligingly not made any noise while he’d been trying to focus, and had even seemed kind of interested in what he was doing, but Draco’s focus was well and truly broken now, so he may as well see what had come for him. Curiosity, you know. 

And he loved getting presents.

Obviously. 

Didn’t everyone?

He got up and stuck his head out of the bathroom door. 

“What sort of package?” he called down. 

“Dunno,” Harry called up. “Looks kinda like _chocolates,_ though. It’s rather a _chocolates_ sort of box like it might be full of CHOCOLATES.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of the Podfic is up, and is so good that I cried. So. You know. Listen to it.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897103/chapters/68312206


	18. Silver and Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the originator of the Pacify Discord Server, Cyandreams, which has been an indispensable light in the darkness of the last impossible year, and can be found here:
> 
> https://discord.gg/haBKKFm
> 
> You'll know why its dedicated to you girl

It was rather a chocolates sort of box, as Draco discovered upon entering the parlor, and it was very pretty,  _ and _ it was straight from Charlie Weasley. Charlie Weasley had sent him a gift, and a new letter, and Draco had honestly forgotten all about that in the mess of the last twenty-four hours. He’d had a question, hadn’t he? And he’d told Charlie what sorts of sweets he liked, and here was a box wrapped in his house colors and emblazoned with _ ‘Madeline’s Cottage of Confections.’  _

Harry held it out, and Draco took it from his hands and looked down at the bow, unsure how to feel other than like he was being jerked around in a lot of different directions. Sweets in silver paper? From Charlie? Time to switch gears from digging a mental trench, certainly. 

“Well, are you gonna open it?” Harry asked, and Draco glanced back up at him, and then over at Snape, who was scratching away at a piece of parchment at the table and not paying any attention at all. Which was polite, he supposed, as Severus Snape really only wasn’t paying attention when he’d decided not to be.

“I… suppose I should, shouldn’t I?” Draco said, frowned, and moved over to the sofa. But Harry just followed him, bouncing up onto the opposite end and hugging his knees in towards his chest.

“It’s in  _ Slytherin colors,”  _ he whispered. 

“Yes, I can see that, Potter,” Draco answered. 

_ “Open it.” _

“Don’t be rude, love,” Severus said absently, his quill moving rapidly through neat, dense lines of text.

“I’m not!” Harry answered. “It’s from one of my brothers, isn’t it? I deserve to know if he fucked it up or not.”

Draco tuned him out and plucked the envelope free. It was addressed to, “Draco Malfoy, The Parlor, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London,” and he slid his finger under the flap and tore it open with some trepidation. 

_ Dear Draco,  _ he read.

_ I’ll be a gentleman and waive the fee, as (I assume) it isn’t a full-sized dragon. And don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare ask anyone how Harry does anything at all. As for your question, male and female Horntails look almost identical, though their temperaments tend to be quite different. But there is one fool-proof way of telling without pissing it off. If Harry’s magic is accurate to life, you should be able to distinguish between the two sexes by looking at its feet. If they look like this, it’s a boy: _

There was a small sketch of a four-toed foot with hooked claws. 

_ If they look like this, it’s a girl: _

The second version contained a fifth hook on the back of the ankle, curving down towards the ground. It was longer than the others, and looked like something Draco wouldn’t want anywhere near him if it wasn’t made of paper.

_ Females have a secondary spur for defending their nests, and they can be vicious when broody, as Harry can probably tell you.  _

_ As for what to call it, dragons respond best if you choose a relatively short name (or nickname) with at least one hard consonant. Those are easier for dragons to recognize as distinct from commands. For example, my favorite Opaleye is named Tatsuya, but we call her Tati. I hope that helps, and I’d like to see it some time. Sounds really interesting.  _

_ Hope you are well, _

_ \- Charlie  _

No mention of the gift at all. Just a disarming amount of dragon expertise, and the knowledge that Charlie Weasley had a favorite Opaleye. And that was… charming. Or, if not charming, definitely… evocative. Draco didn’t even know what an Opaleye  _ was,  _ and just how many dragons did a man need in order to have a favorite of a specific breed? 

He traced the two drawings with his fingertip, wondering what sort of training it took to become a dragonologist, and if Charlie was an artist as well as everything else, and then looked at his dragon where it had apparently decided that its reflection in the silver paper was a dire threat of some kind. Its crest was erect and spread like a crown, and so were the spines on its back and tail.

“What does it say?” Harry finally asked, his palms together and index fingers pressed to his mouth, and when Draco held out the letter in lieu of answering, he snatched it. And that was annoying, so Draco rolled his eyes before inserting his hand between his dragon’s snout and the parcel, blocking its view of itself.

“Calm down,” he said, and scooped it up. “That’s just you. Let’s see your feet, now.” The spurs were just where Charlie had indicated they would be. Four toes, plus one extra lady-claw. “Oh, you’re a girl.” 

Harry chuckled and muttered something about protective Horntails, and Severus spelled  his scroll closed and handed it to the horned owl waiting patiently on the windowsill before coming over to see what the fuss was about. Laying his palms on Harry’s shoulders, he leaned over to read the letter, too. 

_ “Are _ they broody?” he asked. “I haven’t had much direct experience with dragons other than as ingredients.”

“I’d say so, yeah,” Harry answered. “Almost died for that blasted egg, didn’t I?”

“I suppose you did. No scar, though.”

Draco stroked his dragon’s head with one finger. “Hm,” he began. “Time for a name, miss confetti. How about...” He thought about it. “Um… Wilhelmina?” That had been the name of one of his father’s most prized peacocks, and she’d been similar in demeanor to this little paper monster, but apparently it was no good. She puffed out some shreds. “Mina? No? Hm…” He considered. “Anastasia?” His favorite barn cat. A peak killer, and the ruler of all the others. 

He got shreds for that one, too, but fewer, which he took to mean he was on the right track. 

“Oh. Too long. Taz, then? How’s that? Taz?” She spread her wings and flapped them once, looking at him cornerwise and cocking her head like a bird. “You definitely speak english. Taz it is.” 

“Taz?” Harry repeated, looking back at Draco from where he’d apparently been nuzzling his face into Snape’s palm, which Draco had absolutely not been watching. “That’s  _ adorable.” _

“What’s adorable?” Narcissa asked, sweeping into the room. She was holding a cup of tea in one hand and the Prophet in the other like she had something to say about it. Or possibly like it was a baton. “Oh. Hello, gentlemen. Just who I was looking for. Did you read this? There’s a - Ooh, what do you have there?” She dropped the paper onto the coffee table. “Is that from-”

“My  _ Weasley?”  _ Draco sneered, picking up his gift and holding it protectively against his chest. “Yes, mother. It is. He answered my  _ letter,  _ and my dragon’s name is  _ Taz,  _ and it’s a  _ girl.” _

“What about the Prophet?” Harry asked. “I didn’t read the whole thing, just enough to make sure Rita’s behaving correctly. And… seems like she is, if I didn’t miss anything.” He reached back for Severus’ hand on his shoulder. “Is there something else in there?”

“Oh, just take a look at page 12B. Or… have Severus look at it.  _ Open it,  _ darling.  _ Open it.” _

“Could I have some  _ space please mother.” _

Severus summoned the discarded newspaper to his hand and moved to the armchair, and once he was settled, Harry slid out of his spot on the sofa and delicately onto the floor at his feet. Leaning back against Severus’ legs, Harry contented himself watching Draco unwrap while Narcissa flapped her hands at him and Taz tried to ‘help.’ It -  _ she _ \- seemed fascinated with this new and very reflective material, and Harry grinned as Draco failed abjectly at shooing her away, and waited for Severus to relay whatever nonsense was buried in the B section. 

“Hm,” Severus said from behind him. 

“What?” Harry asked. “It’s not about you, is it?”

“Oh, no. Nothing at all to do with me,” Severus answered. “It seems the childhood home of a very famous war-hero has burned to the ground. A terrible tragedy.” Harry looked around to see Severus peering at him from over the top of the paper. 

“That’s awful,” Harry said lightly. “Any idea how it happened?”

“No idea at all. Senseless, which is why it’s been relegated to page twelve of the second section. Apparently the Magical Reversal Squad is quite out of its depth, and the Prophet decided my adolescence carries far more gravitas.”

“You can rip the paper, you know,” Narcissa said as Draco carefully prized each bit of adhesive free. “The paper is not the gift.”

“Magical Reversal Squad?” Harry asked. “Did they… magically reverse it?”

Severus disappeared behind the paper just as his eyes crinkled at the corners. “No,” he said. “Nothing at all could be done. Very sad thing to befall such upstanding citizens. Cornerstones of the community, you know. A travesty.” Harry snorted, and turned back to watch the Malfoys, but after a moment, Severus spoke again. “Actually…” he said, and Harry felt the light tap of a wand-tip on his shoulder. “Would you mind purging this of any and all traces of magic cast? That would be so very helpful.” Harry took the wand, scrunched up his face, and handed it back. _“Priori Incantatem,”_ Severus said, and nothing happened. “Perfect, thank you.”

“No prison for you,” Harry murmured, curling one hand around Severus’ calf behind him. After a moment, it shifted closer, pressing against his side, and though the touch was quite light, it still triggered a little tingle of memory: Severus’ knees against the insides of his thighs. Pushing them apart and then holding them that way, but blurry. Soft, like a dream. 

He swallowed, and the toe of Severus’ boot brushed deliberately against his leg, just over the worst of the scratches, like he knew perfectly well what Harry was thinking about, and wanted Harry to know that he knew. 

“Here! Merlin,” Draco was saying, setting the empty wrapping paper directly on top of Taz’s head like a little tent. Immediately, a cascade of confetti swooshed out from underneath it, and the whole arrangement scooted off the edge of the sofa and onto the floor. “Rip that up, why don’t you? Mad little thing.” He shook his head and lifted the lid from his box, and as he set it aside, Harry could just see that it was embossed with handsome curls of gold vines dotted with red berries. 

He stiffened in delight and touched his bracelet, momentarily distracted from his indecent thoughts. 

_ Charlie mixed the house colors,  _ he sent. _ Oh my god. Did you see? He mixed the colors!  _

Severus did not answer. He just exhaled from behind his newspaper, and somehow, Harry could hear a full scornful rant in that one sound, and he grinned again. But then he had another thought, and replaced his finger.  _ Oh, I bet that was Ginny’s idea. I bet he took Ginny to the confectioners with him to help. She’s a real romantic, you know. Wrote me a love poem in her first year. It was… a lot. Did you know my eyes are as green as a pickled toad? _

No scornful exhale that time. 

Silence.

_ Are you rolling your eyes?  _ Harry thought.  _ I bet you are. Not everyone can fall back on being a charmless yet irresistible sex-god, you know. I’ve heard romance is important. Flowers and sweets and poems and things.  _

Severus pinched him. 

“Ow!” 

“Your  _ favorites,”  _ Narcissa cooed. “Oh, Draco how  _ sweet.  _ Did he guess?”

“No, mother,” Draco answered, and though his voice was haughty, Harry could see that he was pleased. Flushed pink, with the sort of tension in his mouth that belied a smile he was trying to keep inside. “He  _ asked me.” _

“What did he send?” Harry asked. 

“White chocolate truffles,” Narcissa answered. “Look!” She held up one of the treats, wrapped in shimmering, cream-colored foil.  _ “And-”  _ She held up a little satchel tied with curled ribbon. “Pear drops.”

“Oh, I like those,” Harry said. 

“I thought you liked treacle,” Severus muttered from behind the Prophet. 

“I do,” Harry answered. “I like treacle, and pear drops, and chocolate, and shortbread, and  _ syrup.” _

“And biscuits.”

_ “Chocolate _ biscuits,” Harry quipped. “And bonfire toffee. I like that a lot.”

“You’ve the palate of a seventeen-year-old.”

“Shock.”

***

Harry hit the wall of their bedroom so hard the breath was knocked out of him, and before he could so much as begin to inhale, Severus was kissing him. Rough, aggressive - ruthlessly pinning him with a single fist - and it hurt, and Harry melted.

“Do you want chocolates?” Severus growled, twisting his other hand into Harry’s hair, yanking his head back. “Is that what you want?”

“Fuck-” Harry gasped, and when Severus’ tongue swept back into his mouth, he moaned helplessly. He wanted a lot of things, but  _ chocolates  _ were low on the list, and when a rumble vibrated out of Severus’ chest in answer, they dropped right off the bottom. Who cared about sweets? Or pretty paper? Or… literally anything else on earth aside from the man in front of him.

Seizing Severus’ shirt, he dragged him closer until they were flush together, and when Severus’ knee slid between his thighs, he preemptively whimpered in encouragement, wanting more. But then he got more, and realized rather abruptly that he’d whimpered in the wrong tone. Because Severus’ leg pressed up, and oh, god,  _ ow. _

He gasped and recoiled.

“Oh, still sore, are we?” Severus murmured unkindly, breaking the kiss to nose at his ear and the underside of his jaw. “I really must have put you through your paces last night to get a noise like that.” He pressed up a little harder, a possessive sneer curling his lip. “Shall I stop?”

“No,” Harry answered at once. “Don’t stop. It’s not - not that bad.” It was, though. Jeez. What had Severus done to him?

“No?” Severus rocked his hips forward, and Harry cried out weakly as his nerves sparkled with raw sensitivity. “Mm.” Merlin, but he sounded pleased. What a sadist. “Pity I didn’t get to see you like this in your  _ tent.  _ If I recall correctly you told me you could hardly walk.”

“I think I asked you to fuck me against a tree,” Harry managed, digging his fingertips into Severus’ chest and tilting his head to offer his throat. 

“As if I’d do such a thing when you can’t even take a gentle caress like this,” Severus answered, very obligingly biting at his Adam's apple. “You must think me a  _ monster.” _

“You’re not a monster, you’re a - a - -  _ gentleman.”  _

Harry had not been planning on saying gentleman. He’d been planning on saying  _ devil,  _ but Severus chose that moment to grind his knee up between Harry’s legs, and he decided that gentleman was the right way to go. 

“Severus,  _ fuck-”  _

“I will be doing no such thing,” Severus answered against his throat, somehow managing to sound both amused and extremely dangerous both at once, and Harry shivered in his arms, so hard he felt almost sick with it. “I’m not going to give you so much as a single finger, Potter. Offer me something else.” Another suggestion of teeth, not nearly as hard as Harry wanted it to be. “Go on. Offer me something else.”

“Ah - God,” Harry whispered. “I - have a mouth, you know.” 

“I know you do,” Severus murmured back, easing off with his leg. “And what a mouth it is.” He gave Harry one last gentle bite before bracing his hands on either side of his head, clearing a path to the floor. “I’m quite fond of it, in all kinds of ways. Now, shall I force you down, or will you be a good boy and go?” 

What a non-question.

“Force me,” Harry answered, and Severus made a little noise. It was halfway between a snarl and a hum of pleasure, and the heel of a boot hooked into the back of Harry’s right knee just as Severus’ hands landed hard on his shoulders, and, oh. Look at that. He was on his knees. 

“Color?” Severus asked, but shoved his head back against the wall without waiting for an answer, knocking his  _ green _ right out of his mouth. “Green? What a fucking surprise, you mad little demon.” 

_ That _ may as well have been  _ my beloved,  _ and Harry knew it, so he just looked up at Severus from under his eyelashes, and when Severus’ thumb stroked across his mouth, parted his lips to receive it. 

“My God, I love you,” Severus said with a slow, deliberate exhale, and Harry started to suck, letting his eyes half-close. 

He always liked it when Severus breathed that way. Like he was afraid he might lose control of himself. Like he might just fucking  _ snap, _ which had always, and would always, make Harry feel like something unspeakably precious. More than the endearments. More than the declarations. More than the plates of food and the stories and the casual touches.

That  _ struggle. _

He’d never get enough.

“Do you want sweets wrapped in symbolic colors, love?” Severus asked, pulsing his thumb gently in and out of Harry’s mouth, pressing and sliding against his tongue. “I did promise to court you. Is that what you want from me?” Harry shook his head  _ no. _ “No? Do you want something else?” Harry nodded, his cheeks hollowing, and spread his thighs against the floor in a futile bid to relieve some of the pressure building in his body. He wanted a cock in his mouth, and he wanted it badly, and Severus knew it, and Severus was about to give it to him. And ruthlessly, too, judging by his expression. “I see,” Severus continued silkily. “Do you want me to skull-fuck you against this wall?” 

_ Yes. _

_ Yes, yes, yes. _

Harry whined and closed his eyes. 

“What a fever-dream you are,” Severus purred, and Harry heard him shifting his weight, and then his glasses were lifted free, and the sole of a boot was pressing against his cock through his trousers. He could feel the treads. 

His body flushed hot. 

_ Jesus.  _

“Stay still, now. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

***

Draco, his face screwed up, stuck his arm into his room wand-first just as there was a truly alarming thump from overhead.

_ “Sigillum Silentio!”  _ he hissed, pointing at the ceiling, and his magic crackled into life, cutting off the sound before it could so much as echo and leaving a glistening sheen on the plaster like an oil slick. He peeked up at it with one eye, perfectly still, and then sagged in relief. He just wanted to write a fucking letter without his mother hovering over him, and he’d be damned if he was kept out of his own bedroom  _ in the middle of the day, AGAIN,  _ by Harry and Snape’s extremely rambunctious sex life. 

And they had the audacity to imply that they were going upstairs to  _ ‘read’  _ again. As if they could keep their hands off of each other for two bleeding seconds while alone in their bedroom, when they could hardly keep their hands off each other in the  _ living room. _

But, then, he supposed he should be happy they were… also happy. Or… whatever emotion resulted in a  _ thump _ like that. And it was what he deserved, anyway, after wishing Snape would pick Harry up again instead of leading him by the hand. It sounded like he’d been thrown on the bloody floor up there. Just tossed like a sack of horse feed. 

Beside his ear, Taz flapped angrily, attempting to spray some confetti at the ceiling, but her mouth was full of silver paper, and her fire mostly just sprinkled ineffectually down onto his clothes. 

“Hell,” he muttered, brushing it off. “I guess you don’t like the violent noises either, eh? Miracle Harry isn’t in St. Mungo’s every two days. Mad bastard, teasing Snape like that. Fucking death wish.” 

He set his gift and letter on the bedspread, and then lifted Taz from his shoulder, trailing her glittering prize, and set her down as well. 

“Alright Taz,” he said, pointing to the parchment. “No ripping up Charlie’s letters. Understand?  _ No.  _ No letters.” She tilted her head and raised her crest at him, and he squinted. “You can’t fool me, little lady. You learned your name in two seconds, so pay attention. I’ll give you shiny sweet wrappers if you leave Charlie’s letters alone. Shiny wrappers and school papers, alright? And the sports section.” 

He’d felt a little bit stupid talking to her at first, but once it became clear that she was actually listening, it didn’t bother him. Harry’s magic could do anything, so why shouldn’t this wad of sentient paper understand spoken english? If Harry wanted him to be able to talk to her, then he’d be able to talk to her, and it was just as simple as that.

He pointed to the letter again. “No.” Then he pointed to the silver paper. “Yes.” She rustled her wings, and started gnawing on the edge of the gift wrap, which seemed like a,  _ ‘yes master,’  _ or something to that effect. _ ‘Yeah, yeah, ok, fine,’ _ maybe. She could be pretty flippant. Sassy, even. But she was obeying, so Draco toed off his shoes and settled himself onto the bed beside her, conjuring a new piece of parchment and summoning his quill and ink. Then he took the lid off of his chocolates to use as a little desk, and plucked one of the truffles free. The packaging had identified the confections as white chocolate with a raspberry ganache center, and he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth to melt while he spread Charlie’s letter out on the quilt beside him.

Inking his quill, he gazed down at the blocky, angular script. It was the sort of carelessly masculine handwriting that got you marked down on essays, but the little drawings were delicate. Interesting that Charlie could do both, unless his baby sister had done the feet or something, which Draco rather doubted.

_ Dear Charlie,  _ he wrote, and at his elbow, Taz reached out one clawed foot, stole the discarded sweet foil, and secreted it under her paper. He glanced over at her little face peeking out at him and raised an eyebrow. 

“I said you could have it,” he said around the truffle in his mouth, which was indeed delicious. A perfect balance of velvety cream and tart raspberry. “No need for _thievery,_ Taz.” She reached her foot back out and flexed her claws at him, and he scoffed and turned back to his writing. 

_ Thank you for the package,  _ he began.  _ The sweets are lovely, and my dragon (who is a girl - thank you for that as well) is really enjoying the gift wrap you chose. Silver and green. Very appropriate. I suppose I would do well to track down some Salmiak in a green box and wrap it in red and gold? If I’m ever let out of my little prison for a day trip, I’ll make sure to do that. Not that this neighborhood seems like the sort to have a sweet shop, though. It looks more likely to have a black market. Muggle Knockturn Alley, you know. _

He thought about that - about trying to make a joke - but he hadn’t the slightest idea what illegal things Muggles might like to buy. Was there a non-magical equivalent to a cursed necklace? 

What did Muggles even use to kill each other? Sticks and rocks? 

Well, he supposed Charlie probably didn’t know about that sort of thing, either. Weasleys were purebloods, after all, though they didn’t tend to act like it. 

He used to think that was embarrassing. That they were  _ debasing  _ themselves, mucking about with Muggleborns and being poor on purpose. Standing up to the Dark Lord on behalf of those less able, and being ginger, and loud, and freckled, and… recklessly, aggressively, unflinchingly brave. 

_ But you probably know that,  _ he wrote.  _ Since you were in the Order of the Phoenix. Word on the other side was that a lot of you stayed in Number Twelve, but that it was under a fidelius, so no one could get at you.  _

_ Was it a good place to stay back then? Seems like it wouldn’t have been. It’s terribly dreary even now, no matter how hard Kreacher works, though no one else seems to care. It must have been even worse during the war.  _

He tried to imagine it, but all he could think of was how different it would have been to creep into the kitchen at night and find Professor McGonagall and Harry Potter in there, instead of Greyback and Pettigrew. Maybe being crammed into a house with a bunch of Order Members was a lark? Weasleys and Professors and Dumbledore and the future Minister. Different from being trapped in the Manor, certainly.

Everything would have been so different.

He looked over at Taz where she was apparently trying to compress her rubbish into a tighter ball, and absently tickled the feather end of his quill at her tail. Immediately, she twitched it behind herself and flattened to the quilt, offended. 

“Sorry,” Draco chuckled.

_ Anyway,  _ he wrote.  _ I’ve taken your advice about my dragon’s name as well _ . _ I’ve decided to call her Taz, short for Anastasia, and she’s responding to it already. She’s right here with me now, actually, hiding under the gift wrap and acting like touching her tail is a mortal sin. Is that something dragon’s don’t like? Being touched on the tail? I suppose if she was a real dragon no one would dare. _

_ I do wish I knew more about dragons in general. I’d like to figure out how much of her behavior is dragon-related, and how much is just mad Harry-Potter-related, but I didn’t pay much attention in Care of Magical Creatures. I’m not even sure if we covered dragons at all, in fact, so she’s a bit hard to read. She’s a good companion, though, and her fire is made of little bits of paper, so she doesnt hurt me even if she sprays it right on me. It’s very charming. _

Taz shot fire at him right at that moment, and he blew air back at her and brushed it off, wondering if she could somehow read as well as listen. 

Unwrapping a second chocolate in a mood of experimentation, he rolled up the foil and flicked it off the edge of the bed, and Taz pursued it without hesitation. So, obviously she could  _ see _ well enough, even if her folded paper face did not have eyes as such. But reading? Seemed illogical. But then, with Harry, that didn’t really mean anything. He was always doing illogical things. Like burning door handles off of government buildings, and deflecting unforgivables, and… whatever he was doing right at that moment.

Taz flapped back up to the bed with the bit of foil in her teeth, nosed it under the giftwrap, and wriggled back under herself, looking more like a harassed porcupine than a fearsome predator. 

“Terrifying,” Draco said. “You really showed that wrapper what’s what.”

  
_Also, I meant to ask you in my last letter,_ _when Horntails raise their spikes, is that an aggressive gesture, or a friendly one? Sometimes, like just now, it seems sort of happy, or playful, but other times (like when the post owl arrived) it reads more defensive. Like she was trying to look bigger, or was showing her sharp bits to scare off an attacker. I suppose it’s scary to be such a small dragon. They must be used to being in charge, and here she is the size of a Magpie…_


	19. Character

Draco continued to write, and read back, and unwrap chocolates, and it was some time later - half the box and two full pages of parchment later - that he finally finished rambling, signed his name, stretched, and abruptly recalled that he’d meant to be patching up his Occlumency. But it was late afternoon by that time, and he was tired, and absolutely soaked in sugar, and the thought of trying to settle himself down into a meditative state was nightmarish. No  _ way _ would he be able to focus half as well as he’d need to to get anything done. If he tried now, he was likely to end up stuck in a quagmire of awful memories, and that would be a waste of time. 

But that didn’t mean he had to be completely useless. 

He could take a shower.

Draco generally liked to shower every morning - and sometimes at night, too - but he’d been severely derailed by the Prophet and hadn’t taken one at all yet that day, which he had a feeling was the sort of day everyone in Wizarding Britain was having. Except for Rita Skeeter and her editors, of course, who he imagined were justifiably cackling like a murder of crows over the goldmine Snape had dropped into their laps.

Because it  _ was  _ a goldmine, and aside from the pictures - which were soppy and mortifying, and Rita should be ashamed to so transparently reveal her angle - it was fascinating. He’d read it quite quickly, anxious and excited, sucking down the teaser-laden introduction and the story of Snape’s first years at Hogwarts, only to be struck in the face with a long, and unexpected section about his own father. At least a thousand words, and if it hadn’t  _ all _ been new information, he hadn’t known it all, either.

He had known, for example, that his late father was six years Snape’s senior, and that they’d only crossed paths at Hogwarts for two years. He’d known that Lucius had been Snape’s Prefect, and then his Head Boy. A role-model and unattainable goal for the boy from Cokeworth, who’d ended up Head of Slytherin House. Draco had known it, and as a child, had worn that knowledge like a little crown.

But Draco’s father had also, apparently, personally led Severus Snape by the hand to the Dark Lord’s knee at the tender age of seventeen, which Draco had not known, and did not like, and wished he hadn’t read. 

He did not like the image it conjured in his mind of his father waxing poetic about _ the glory _ into Snape’s ear, and promising him wealth and status. He did not like the image of rich, handsome, twenty-three-year old Lucius, newly head of the Malfoy Estate, promising Snape protection, and influence, and authority, and who knew what else, if only he’d submit to the Mark. That if only he’d be a good boy and hand over his life, he could have everything he ever wanted. Honor, and respect. Escape from squalor. A place of significance in the new world order once the war was won, as surely it would be. Telling Snape, as Lucius must have done, about how  _ proud _ he would be. So very proud to bring another valuable servant into the fold. To offer up a pretty new trinket to the Dark Lord to deface and ruin.

Draco didn’t like it. 

But anyway, a shower. 

“C’mon, Taz,” he said, offering his shoulder, and when she hopped up into her place, he went into the bathroom and pulled a towel from the peg. And then he dropped it, as Taz reacted with an immediate flurry of confetti and flapped over the curtain rod and right into the stall. “Hey-” He pulled the curtain back after her. “You’ll get wet in there, paper idiot. Come out.”

She perched on the tap like a gargoyle and raised her crest and wings, whipping her tail from side to side. Her meaning was quite clear:  _ Shower is bad. No shower. _

He frowned, and put his hands on his hips.

“What?”

But he knew what. Obviously she was still upset by his little breakdown. She was his familiar, after all, and she could speak english, and she’d heard him _ screeching,  _ and that was agitating for animals, wasn’t it? He’d seen cats bothered by that sort of thing in the Slytherin dorms a few times, anyway; climbing all over their person, purring, kneading, rubbing up against their faces and getting fur stuck in their tears. That part of having a pet had never appealed to him, particularly, as the cats he’d grown up with were all working animals, but Taz was not a cat. No hair, at least, and it was kind of nice having someone care, even if it was someone made of paper. 

“Alright, Taz.” He picked her up, careful not to crumple her wings when she refused to fold them, and pulled her back out of the shower. “If you want to be near the water, you’ll need charming. Hold still.” He pointed his wand at her.  _ “Aquaprotegat!”  _ he said. “There. On the rod, though. No need to get drenched.” He held her up, and she leapt to the top of the curtain and peered down at him, cocking her head this way and that. “I’m fine. I won’t cry, you odd thing. I just want to wash my hair.”

Shreds sprinkled down onto him, and he wondered if Charlie’s dragons were protective, too. If Charlie’s dragons felt bad when he was upset, or if they accidentally hurt him. It would sort of make sense if that was how dragon-training worked. More sense than trying to picture a human person taming a thirty-thousand kilogram creature by force. Even one as visibly hardened as Charlie Weasley. 

He should ask. 

He took a single step back towards his bedroom, and then stopped himself. He couldn’t add _ more  _ to that  _ one letter.  _ That would be insane. It was already way too long, and he just needed to shower before he did something embarrassing.

Turning on the spray before he could fold, he got undressed, tossing his shirt into the hamper and meticulously hanging his trousers over the edge, and wondering if it would be uncouth to send his letter right away. It might be good to get rid of it as soon as possible, but that seemed like the sort of thing that wasn’t done. Or, at least, he had a vague memory of Blaise once saying something to that effect. That it was boorish to  _ pursue.  _ That it made you seem desperate. Pathetic.

Not that Draco was in the same situation as Blaise Zabini, of course. For starters, Blaise wasn’t just attractive, he was famously attractive. He was the son of the most beautiful Witch alive, and his cheekbones could cut glass, and  _ he’d  _ never gotten mixed up with the Deatheaters, either. Someone like that could feign disinterest to leverage more attention all he wanted. Attention, and gifts, and groveling, the way boys and girls alike had responded to Blaise’s scorn with redoubled effort at school. And maybe Draco could have done that, too. Maybe he would have. 

Before. __

He looked down at his Mark, livid and glaring on his forearm, and at the narrow scar below it, and then angled his body towards the mirror. 

There had been a time, not so very long ago, that Draco had enjoyed looking at his reflection. That he’d spent ages primping and preening, examining his smooth skin, taking care that each hair on his head was perfectly in place, and inspecting the peaks and planes of his body. There had been a time that he’d looked forward to becoming a man. To growing into someone as lovely and proud as his mother. As ambitious and regal as his father. To being looked at with envy and longing by people who wanted him, but could never hope to have him.

He had been that way, once.

But not for a while. 

Tracing the pad of his finger down one of the slashes that bisected his sternum, he followed its twisting path towards his stomach to where it crossed another near his navel. That one, he thought, was the one that had almost killed him. Or, at least, the one that had cut the deepest. The one he hated the most, however, was much higher, reaching up out of all but his most old-fashioned collars. It hadn’t been deep, but with the way it curled up towards his Adam’s apple, it was the hardest to hide by far, and he didn’t like people to see it. He didn’t like ‘people’ to see his skin at all anymore, and he’d done pretty well at preventing it since that day in the corridor, with one very glaring exception. 

But he hadn’t had a choice about that. It had either needed to be the one, or the many, and he’d chosen the one, and it did not do to dwell.

A shiver raced down his spine and he turned to the side, looking over his shoulder to see the shallow red furrow Madam Rosemerta’s healing spells hadn’t quite been able to remove, and the tails of his  _ sectumsempra _ scars where they wrapped around his ribs, wanting to get the full effect of his disfigurement before the steam fogged the mirror too much to wallow. But Taz had other ideas, apparently, and she dove from the shower curtain right at that moment, alighting on the sink and aggressively fixated on her own reflection, and Draco thought,  _ dragons,  _ and then he remembered something. Something Charlie had said to him - or to Harry, maybe, but while touching _ him  _ \- downstairs in the parlor with his brother. Charlie’s hand, rough with callouses, but surprisingly gentle, had been wrapped around his wrist. Charlie’s arms, gnarled with muscle and keloids, had been exposed to the light by his rolled up sleeves, revealing layers of freckles, and furrows, and shiny burned skin. 

_ ‘I don’t mind scars much, myself,’  _ he’d said, the tip of his wand resting on Draco’s cut finger, and his eyes - gold and brown and amber - warm like firelight reflected in a tumbler of whisky, had looked away. His eyes, like sweet sap, dripping from a tree in the dead of winter, turning towards Harry, relieving Draco of the inexplicable terror of being watched. Turning away from him in a way that was somehow… kind. Though Draco had certainly never found disregard  _ kind _ before. 

_ ‘Isn’t that right, Harry?’ _

He swept a palm through the condensation on the mirror, revealing an ephemeral streak of his damaged body. 

_ ‘Scars add character.’ _

***

Andromeda Tonks looked helplessly over to the entryway from where she was posted in her kitchen, precariously juggling an enraged baby in one arm, and tossing a skillet with the other. Someone was at the door, and she’d been hoping that Remus was within earshot and would come unprompted, but apparently he wasn’t, or he wouldn’t. 

“Remus?” she called over Teddy’s horrific squalling. He cried most of the day, or so it seemed, and if Remus was already drunk, she was going to have his head. “REMUS?”

“Yes?” came Remus’ raspy reply from the direction of the bedrooms. “What is it?” His shuffling self soon followed his voice into the room, and she gave him a critical once-over. He was scruffy - unshaven, as usual - and looked exhausted, but he seemed sober enough. He might just have been sleeping after Teddy’s bad night, though it was past four o’clock. Looking at him, she wondered if he’d remembered his final dose of Wolfsbane, but decided against asking. He did not like to be reminded, and that close to the full moon, his temper was worse than ever. She’d been prepared for that, though. Dora had told her about it before their elopement. Warned her mother not to be alarmed, that it was just his affliction, and he wasn’t really that sort of man. And it did seem to be true. Most of the time. 

“The door, if you please,” she said, lifting her chin towards the sound of the knocking as it came again. It was polite, but very brisk, and Remus nodded, pausing to kiss his son’s screaming head on his way. 

“If it’s another reporter they’ll get a  _ petrificus,”  _ he grumbled, and Andromeda made a noncommittal noise and gave her frying pan another jostle, listening as best she could while so occupied, and wishing, as she often did, that Dora and Ted were in the living room, instead of… well. 

Wishing they were there, anyway. 

“My, my, my, mister Teddy,” she crooned to her grandson, whose hair transformed before her eyes from an angry shade of yellow to an angry shade of pink, standing up in spikes with his displeasure. “You certainly are loud today. What lungs, mister! My, my, my, mister Teddy. We have company! You’ll scare them away.” 

The conversation at the door was low, and she couldn’t quite make out the voices or words of the visitors, though she did think it sounded like more than one. Maybe it was Bill and Fleur. That would be a pleasant surprise. Teddy loved them, and they were a bit of help, besides. Or maybe it was someone else from the Order. A few had visited to offer their condolences, and a few more had brought gifts and flowers and cakes and things when they’d heard that there would be no large funeral. All the members of the Order were quite nice, she thought, and they put up with Teddy’s colic admirably. Particularly Minerva, who, as she’d said, had forty nieces and nephews, and all of them with  _ ‘the screams.’ _ Minerva would be a great treat, the saucy thing.

Andromeda was just examining her cooking with an eye towards how far it would stretch to feed whoever was at the door, in fact, when Remus’ voice abruptly changed in pitch and volume, carrying from the entryway with a hysterical sort of humor.

_ “So, what, am I under arrest, then?”  _

She turned her head, but could not catch the reply over the sizzle and pop of onions and Teddy’s fury. 

_ “Then get the fuck out of my house!”  _ Remus barked.  _ “I won’t ask nicely again.” _

“Teddy bear, teddy bear,” Andromeda continued gently, bouncing him, listening hard. “Teddy teddy teddy bear. Mister Teddy! Teddy bear.”

_ “I don’t know anything about that, alright? I told the Prophet all I’ll tell anyone, which is nothing. Goodb- Oi! BACK UP.”  _

He’d screamed at those reporters, too. Screamed, and threatened, and slammed the door. But these did not sound like reporters.

“Loud mister bear…” she said, her voice artificially light as she pulled the skillet off the heat and moved over to the kitchen window, twitching back the curtains just in time to see a Wizard stumble back like he’d been shoved, and another Witch and Wizard move to catch him. “Mister Teddy-beddy bear…” They were not in uniform, but they had the sort of look of Dora’s old coworkers. That way of holding their wands. Trained. 

_ “So arrest me for assault! Or is there a reason you’re here in your civvies, eh? I know you, Perkin, and you, Whitestone. I know you, and my wife knew you, and the Order knew you, and you have my blessing to come back with a fucking warrant or a fucking Imperio if you want me to tell the DMLE ANYTHING.”  _

SLAM. 

Andromeda let the curtain drop and hurried back to the stove just in time for Remus to stalk back from the living room, muttering darkly to himself. 

“Everything alright?” she asked, a touch of baby-voice still coloring her words as she kept her eyes on her grandson. He’d been shocked out of his crying by the slamming door, and seemed to be trying to decide whether or not to explode anew. “Oooo loud noise, just like you!” she said cheerily. “Oh, my! So loud. What a loud noise.”

“It’s fine,” Remus spat, slapping his palm against the wall. “Dirty fucking  _ law enforcement.”  _ His hand fisted, and he hung his head like he was fighting the urge to go after them. Which, Andromeda thought, he probably was. 

“Language, papa,” she said sweetly, just as Teddy sucked in a huge breath and his hair turned a violent, putrid green. “Bad language bad for baby!” He let it out in an almighty screech, and Andromeda watched as Remus scrunched up his face and turned towards the liquor cabinet, reaching reflexively for a bottle of cheap muggle spirits. It was already nearing empty, she saw, and of the kind she quite despised. It made him smell like a brothel.

“It’s… a bit early,” she said carefully, and Remus’ hand stalled, half-curled around the neck of the bottle, and there was a moment of silence as his tawny eyes lifted to meet hers. Then he let go, and swept his hair out of his face, like that was what he’d meant all along. 

He was trying, at least. That was true. He was trying.

“I’m… going to have a smoke, then,” he said. “Do you mind? Ten minutes, and then I’ll… I’ll see if I can put Teddy down for a nap. And… I’ll wash my hands first.”

“Oh, yes, that should be fine.” Andromeda turned back to her skillet. “Papa is going into the garden,” she said to Teddy. “Maybe papa will see some birdies out there! Eh, Teddy bear? We love birdies, don’t we?”

The pack of smokes in Remus’ back pocket was almost empty, and somewhat squashed, and he scuffed his feet in his mother-in-law's neat gravel path as he teased it free and shook out a single cigarette. That was squashed, too, but that didn’t trouble him, and he leaned against the outside of the house and lit it with his wand, stilling the trembling in his hands with practiced efficiency and wondering why no one would leave him the fuck alone. 

He took a long drag, held it in, and then let the acrid smoke out through his nose in a slow, even stream. 

Fucking reporters coming around to his house asking about Harry and Snape. 

Fucking plain-clothes Aurors creeping up to his door, asking about  _ Harry  _ and _ Snape. _

Fucking _ Snape _ in the fucking NEWSPAPER touching  _ Harry. _ On the bloody COVER. 

Fucking  _ FUCK. _

He slammed his fist into the bricks behind him. 

Suddenly everyone cared about _Harry,_ did they? Suddenly everyone was _so worried,_ so _concerned_ and _invested_ now that it was way too fucking late. Now that absolutely everything was over, NOW they wanted to know what Snape had been up to for the last _two years?_ Idiots, the lot of them. Intrusive, blind, hypocritical, crooked _idiots._ No one had cared when Harry was being _stroked_ out in the snow and trying to drown himself in Dreamless Sleep. No one cared when he was black and blue, and creeping upstairs alone with his Professor. Sleeping in his bed. Showering in his bathroom, like that was just perfectly usual. _Smelling_ like him. His soap, and his hands, and his SHEETS.

No one had cared. Not the Governors, and not Dumbledore, and not Molly, and not anyone, and as far as Remus was concerned, they had forfeited their right  _ ever _ to care. Wasn’t that what Ron had thrown in his face the night Dora died?  _ ‘If you care so much, why didn’t you come for him in that Muggle Hell-hole? He’s your best friend’s son, isn’t he? Surely you gave a shit.’  _

‘That Muggle Hell-hole,’ which was now, according to the Prophet, a pile of charcoal and ash, the fire conveniently and mysteriously localized to utterly razing that one house, while leaving the neighbors untouched. And the Prophet had the bollocks to act like it wasn’t clear who’d done it. 

It was clear. It was bloody  _ obvious, _ wasn’t it?

_Beaten_ and _starved,_ that was what Ron had said. That Harry was being beaten, and Harry was being starved, and if that was true, there were probably a lot of people who would fantasize about punishing the Durselys for treating him that way. Remus himself might not let an opportunity to hurt Vernon Dursley pass if one presented itself, but there was only one person he could think of that would _burn down the house._

And it wasn’t a rogue Deatheater trying to scare the Boy Who Lived. No Dark Mark hovering over the remains to strike fear into the hearts of the survivors. No pomp, no drama, just destruction. 

Bloody. Obvious.

Remus had known Severus Snape since they were eleven years old, and that man was a lot of things. He was intelligent, calculating, and precise. He was dedicated, creative, uncompromising, and fastidious. But he was also vengeful, and violent, and possessive, and as far as he was capable of love, he loved Harry. He’d said so, in plain language, surrounded by armed enemies, and that fucking Patronus had proved it. Hadn’t Remus himself allowed Patronus lore to force his hand in marrying Dora? Hadn’t he taken one look at her great silver wolf and folded immediately, despite his ironclad conviction that he would destroy her life? 

Love.

As if  _ love _ kept people from destroying each other. 

He inhaled another deep billow of poison against the rolling wave of nausea that threatened to overcome him, but he hadn’t enough in his stomach to get sick, anyway. He could get sick later, when he’d earned it. Once Andromeda was asleep, he could continue on his project to drink himself to death. Merlin knew his son would be better off without him. A werewolf for a father? No one would want that by itself, let alone a werewolf who’d managed to save exactly none of the people he cared about. And to think, if only he’d died in Dora’s place, he could have been a glorious memory. A soldier, fallen for a cause. A man, who’d died for his wife and child. Maybe even a hero, resting under an elegant headstone, instead of whatever he was now. 

And the DMLE thought they could drag him back into their sleazy games after everything, did they? They thought they could send bloody  _ Walter Perkin  _ to his house, where his baby boy lived, unannounced and in unmarked robes? They thought they could pluck at his heartstrings, asking for a statement about  _ poor Harry? _

That Deatheater prick and his puppet friends deserved to be hanged. Surely they knew that his Dora had been forced to flee the department once hostilities began. Surely they knew that he _knew_ that every Auror left in active duty by the end of the war was either a puppet, a traitor, or a coward. Surely they knew that coming to his house with a vendetta against the man that cut down the Dark Lord was a blinding tip of the hand. 

What did they think he was, a fool?

_ ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Lupin. May I come in?’ _

Fucking NO. 

_ ‘We just have a few questions regarding the complaint you filed with the Hogwarts Board of Governors on the 26th of December, 1996. Would you mind giving us five minutes of your time?” _

Yes, he minded. 

He  _ minded. _

_ ‘I’m afraid I must insist, Sir.’  _

Ooooh, a badge. 

Remus scoffed, glaring at the glowing end of his cigarette. As far as he was concerned, they could _insist_ all they wanted. They could insist, and bellow, and beg, and coerce, and pressure, and blackmail, and intimidate, but he was never going to lift a finger to help anyone that had stayed in the Ministry after it fell. Dora had risked her life, and lost it, to do what was right, and those fucking _Aurors_ had huddled behind their badges and dragged Muggleborns away from their families. They’d bowed and scraped and kissed the ring. They’d _followed_ _orders_ like obedient dogs, and so had survived, and they could go straight to hell. 

Deatheater scum. 

He took another drag, wishing he’d clocked Perkin right in the teeth, but before he could exhale, there was a sudden crash, and redoubled screaming from Teddy, and he jumped, coughed out the smoke, and looked around.

“What was that?” he managed, and coughed again, trying to clear his voice. “Andromeda? Did something break?” He wrenched open the door. “Are you alright? The baby?”

“REMUS?” came Andromeda’s voice in answer, almost a shriek, and he flicked his cigarette away and pulled his wand. If it was the bloody Aurors back again he was going to  _ explode. “REMUS?”  _

“What?” he called out. “What is it? Did they come back?”

He burst into the kitchen and immediately realized that, no, the Aurors had not come back. It was Bill and Fleur who had come to call, and the first thing Remus saw when he skidded to a halt was Fleur soothing Teddy, her silver hair obscuring her face. The second thing he saw was Bill mending a broken serving bowl, and it took a moment for Remus’ brain to fully absorb what he was looking at. For his eyes to understand what was right in front of him. 

He hit the wall, and only then realized that he’d staggered back. 

“Hey,” Bill said, holding out his hands. “Remus, hey. Let’s sit down.”

***

Back at Number Twelve, Harry lay on his belly, sideways on his bed with his chin in his hand, idly paging through  _ Magically Significant Chordata: A Complete Compendium _ . He’d already confirmed that the Aye-aye and Pangolin were indeed real animals, and the correct ones at that, and had since moved on to discovering the names of two more creatures he’d seen in his magic: the Southern Cassowary, his blue-faced bird, which was apparently really very dangerous - and the Palm Civet, which he’d thought was a weasel but wasn’t - and he was having a pretty good time. He felt good, anyway. Pleasantly achy in all kinds of places, and in a state of relaxed, satisfied languor. Being pinned to the wall by Severus Snape could do that to you. Pinned to the wall, choked on his cock, and then brought off against his boot, anyway. 

Very relaxing. 

Harry hadn’t thought he’d be able to come like that, not least of which because he was so bloody sore, but he had. Hard, right in his trousers, and Severus had cursed obscenely and shot down his throat, and Harry’d needed to be helped up off the floor, after. Had barely been able to feel his legs, really. Just absolute, bone-liquifying euphoria, which was something he didn’t usually experience twice in less than twenty-four hours. 

He was just having an excellent day in general, and it felt like the first really good one in a long time. The Prophet was behaving itself, and there was no incriminating evidence on Severus’ wand, and Draco and Narcissa were probably off writing a letter to Charlie together and eating truffles, and Severus was still Sir, and sharing the colors was a really good idea.

He kicked his feet, humming to himself and basking in his aches and pains, and flipped past a color-changing lizard that was apparently also not magical, hoping Severus was making some good progress with organizing his memories. He’d retreated to the library to work on it, saying that he needed quiet, which Harry thought was fair. Narcissa hadn’t been off the mark at all when she’d prophesied Severus submitting a crate, and he hadn’t even taken any from Harry’s brain, yet. 

He’d probably need to take a lot, which was obviously why he was putting it off, but Harry wasn’t nearly as concerned now as he had been before his little experiment. He could handle getting upset as long as he didn’t cause a nuclear event, and getting upset would be worth it if it would help Draco. He should tell that to Severus, in case he was worried. Do a test-run, maybe, with the shield in place, for him to see. And even if Severus wasn’t worried, Harry still wanted to show him. His idea had worked so much better than he’d thought it would, and Severus would probably be proud, the way he’d been when Harry first pulled that flame into his palm. Surprised, and proud, and excited. 

That would be so good. It was so much fun when Severus made that  _ ‘oh, look, he’s smart after all,’  _ face. 

Gazing vaguely at his book and trying to remember the other times Severus had looked at him that way, he absently rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, and then startled when a stem appeared unbidden between them. It was attached to a very large flower - pale, and pointed like a star, and almost a handspan across - and he had definitely never seen it before.

He turned it over in his hands, wondering, and then looked over at his copy of  _ Flora of the Rainforest _ where it was laying on his dresser, and then down at his bracelet, and back at the flower. He could try to figure it out himself, he supposed, but who knew if this flower was  _ of the rainforest?  _ Could be from any climate at all, and Severus had been gone for a while. Maybe he wouldn’t mind a brief distraction. 

Squinting at the blossom, he vanished it, and then waited to see what might happen. And what happened was, his bracelet warmed with the single word:  _ [Why]  _

He laughed. 

_ Why, what?  _

_ [Why did a cascade of clematis just rain down on me from the ceiling? I have to assume that was you and not some as-yet-undiscovered flower-based poltergeist] _

_ Oooh, _ Harry thought.  _ Sorry, I thought I just sent the one. Didn’t mean to make a mess. What does it mean? _

There was a silence, and Harry imagined Severus standing up to brush all the flowers off before answering. He was probably pretending to be annoyed even though no one could see him. Scowling at nothing, and covered in flowers. Ha. 

_ [Clematis?]  _ appeared. _ [Ingenuity and cleverness. Should I be worried, or are you just thinking about me, your incredibly clever and very busy soulmate?] _

_ I was thinking about showing you my new magic, actually, _ Harry answered.  _ Although I do find you clever, yeah. Like I said. It’s hypnotizing. _

_ [Don’t flirt with me while you can’t even stand up by yourself]  _

Harry read that, scoffed, and scrunched up his face. 

_ [Oh, my. What a complex rejoinder] _

_ What did I send? _

_ [An aggressive quantity of buttercups]  _ Severus answered.  _ [Meaning, ‘you are radiant with charm.’] _

Harry laughed again.  _ Wow, how rude of me. _

_ [Rain anything else down on me and you’ll get a spanking, Potter] _

_ Oh, threats. Now who’s flirting? _

_ [Alas, you are very distracting]  _

Harry turned onto his back and grinned at the ceiling.  _ Can I do one more?  _ he thought. _ No rain, though. Swear. Just one.  _

_ [Fine. Dazzle me with what must be the most inherently useless magical power ever conceived] _

In the library, Severus sat, waiting, covered with pollen and petals, and after a moment, a single huge stem clustered with golden blossoms fell onto his lap like a bloody tree branch. He jumped, and then sighed, and touched his wand to his bracelet.

“Pierce your heart, do I?” he asked. 

_ [Yep]  _ came Harry’s answer.  _ [Like a SWORD] _

Severus nearly laughed. Nearly. It was a gladiolus in his lap, and the gladiolus may as well have been called, ‘sword flower,’ named as it was for the resemblance of its leaves to the Roman Gladius. Harry’s magic could, occasionally, be quite obtuse. When it wasn’t being blindingly nuanced, of course. 

“You are a menace,” he said, setting the mammoth cutting aside to put in water when he was through. Harry probably had no idea what he’d summoned, and it was comically large, and that was the sort of thing Harry deserved to see. “Is this revenge for my soppery?”

_ [No]  _ appeared.  _ [Why would I try to get revenge for a light in the darkness like that? Plus, I thought you liked flowers] _

“I do,” Severus answered. “Though I suppose I prefer them presented, rather than pouring mysteriously from the ceiling onto my unprepared head.”

_ [Haha. I’ll keep that in mind for next time. Are you almost done?] _

“Not quite.” In truth, he’d hardly begun, but Harry did not know that. “Though I’ll watch you magically endanger yourself another day, if you like.”

_ [Ok]  _ Harry answered. _ [I’m a bit tired just now, anyway. I think I’ll go into my magic for a while, but if I’m asleep when you finish, wake me up, will you?] _

“I shall.”

_ [Hope I didn’t get petals in any memories] _

“Just all over me, my love,” Severus answered. “Which I think was your intention.”

What Harry  _ had _ done was get flowers all over Severus, his book, and his notes. He’d given up attempting to organize his samples by timeline that morning, and had rearranged them by name without much trouble, and then, having reduced Harry to a fresh state of bliss against the wall, he’d decided to turn his attention to  _ Corpora Occultatum _ . He’d been dying to dig into it, and had made a minor attempt the previous evening in bed, but had realized fairly immediately that large chunks of it needed to be decrypted before it could be understood. And so he’d brought it to the library where he could annotate in peace. The process was involved, and it had annoyed him at first, as he was looking for something to do to Harry on his birthday, not a scholarly exercise, but he’d been bolstered by the warning on page two, written in ink only slightly less faded by time than the original text: 

_ ‘Beware ye who dare unfurl the pages herein, lest ye be relegated for all time to the trough of hell, to be subjected to none less than the most befitting tortures of the almighty for thine sins,’  _ with the notation beside it in a different hand entirely:  _ ‘Alas, small minds abound.’ _

Very promising. __

And the diagrams? Well, as a man in a committed relationship with another man, those were of inherently mixed relevance, and occasionally horrifying. But he made good progress nonetheless, and when he returned to his bedroom with his flower-sword in water to collect Harry for dinner, he found him quite sound asleep under one of Severus’ cloaks, with his hand resting on a picture of a Kakapo, and his glasses askew. 

***

“What do you mean he slammed the door?”

“I mean he slammed the door, Sir. Right in my face.”

“But… that doesn’t make any sense. He filed the initial complaint.”

Perkin shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Must have changed his mind. He told us to come back with a warrant.”

“A  _ warrant?” _

“A _‘fucking_ warrant,’” Whitestone corrected. “Or a ‘fucking Imperio.’” She shook her head. “Not a happy man, there.”

  
  



	20. No Lies

The responses to Severus’ letters to Madam Rosmerta, Hermione, and Lee Jordan arrived all in a row with the following morning’s post, along with a large package from Aguillard Couturier borne by a trio of great grey owls, and  _ ‘The Chosen One’s Chosen One Part Two,’  _ which Draco snatched before anyone else could so much as see the cover. Which was, as it turned out, a memory capture straight from Rita’s brain, depicting Harry kissing the back of Severus’ hand. It wasn’t quite as clear as the previous day’s cover, as it was fractured in places like it had been seen through a broken window - a result of Rita’s fear, Severus assumed - but the focal point was Harry’s face, and it was quite striking.

“They really value these shots of your sparkling eyes,” Severus said, freshly thankful that Harry’d thought to vanish his bruises before taking Rita inside. If he hadn’t, the cutline may well have been, _‘The Battered Boy Who Lived,’_ instead of the much more romantic, _‘A Bond Forged in the Trenches,’_ which was what they’d apparently gone with. “You’d think nothing else of import was happening at all.”

“They want their readers overcome by those  _ limpid pools of verdant green,”  _ Narcissa said from beside her son. “It sells more issues, you know. The  _ limpid pools.” _

Harry rolled his  _ sparkling eyes,  _ and Narcissa laughed, and though Severus thought she was probably right, he also privately considered it likely that Rita was trying to do him a favor, focusing on Harry that way. Trying to make up for her initial,  _ ‘dear god someone call law enforcement’  _ coverage, perhaps. Show enough of that unbearably sweet expression to the world, and people might get on board with the fact that Harry was actually happy with him, and that there was no purpose to be served by trying to tear him away. 

Other than to ruin both their lives, of course, which would be very rude.

“Have you sent your letter, darling?” Narcissa continued, addressing Draco. “I heard Persephone hooting, so she should be available for a delivery. If you haven’t sent it yet. Have you sent it?” Draco did not answer her. He just rustled the edges of the paper in annoyance, and Taz flapped to his knuckles and stuck her face in between two of the pages. “I’ll take that as a, ‘no, my beloved mother, I have not yet sent my letter, thank you for asking, and also you look radiant today.’”

“Pff,” Draco said. “You always look radiant. It’s stressful.”

“What’s come for you?” Harry asked, and Severus glanced over to see that Harry was trying to get a look at his letters. He held them out of view. He hadn’t yet seen who they were all from, and under no circumstances did he want Harry to see  a blazing return address like  _ Mr. Withers Quail, Master Craftsman of FINE JEWELRY. _

“Ah - secrets not for your eyes,” he said. “Fix me a cup of tea, will you? I’m quite uncaffeinated.”

Harry gave him a skeptical look. “Secrets?” he asked. “What secrets? I thought we weren’t doing that anymore.”

_ “Lying _ is what we don’t do anymore,” Severus corrected him. “But a secret is not a lie, and I’m not sure which secrets they are, as I have not yet read them. Tea?”

“If you don’t send it you wont get any more  _ gifts, _ darling,” Narcissa told Draco loftily. “It’s very simple. The first thing you learn!”

“I’m trying to read the paper!” Draco answered. “Or do you not  _ care  _ about the  _ incredible drama  _ unfolding on the  _ national stage?” _

“You say that like I don’t already know the story.”

“Did you know that Professor Snape saved Harry from being  _ murdered _ by the Dark Lord AT SCHOOL when I was ELEVEN? It was  _ during a Quidditch match.” _

_ “Let me see that.” _

“What secrets?” Harry repeated, searching Severus’ eyes, and Severus held his scrolls behind his back, arching an eyebrow in what he hoped was a playful and entirely non-anxious manner. He’d never done this before - any of  _ this -  _ and he didn’t really know how.

“Well, it could be responses to my requests to meet with your friends for memory supplementation,” he answered. “Or it could be birthday secrets, or potions ingredients, or it could be something altogether different yet still critically private for the immediate future.”

“Birthday secrets?” Harry asked, eyeing Severus’ elbow where it was hooked behind his back like he had never heard of such a thing before in his life. Which, Severus thought with an icy finger of vengeful bloodlust, he probably hadn’t. “Like what?”

“Oh, like the order form for a cake the size of a horse and constructed entirely from candy floss and buttercream,” Severus answered. “Or possibly a flogger. It’s impossible to tell at this early stage of my not having read them.” Harry frowned, and Severus reached out with his unoccupied hand and took hold of his chin, categorically ignoring Narcissa’s brief but very obvious expression of elated amusement from over the edge of the newspaper. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I mean… yeah,” Harry answered uncertainly. “I guess.”

“Then let me have my secrets for now. A seasonal state of affairs. I’m afraid you’ll have to tolerate it again around Christmastime, Valentine’s day, and possibly the equinoxes, if I’m feeling inspired.”

Harry’s forehead crinkled, but the Crinkle of Concern didn’t last very long, which Severus considered a good sign. 

“Spy,” Harry accused. “I’ll put sugar in your tea.”

“You would never betray me that way,” Severus answered, and Draco grumbled something and snatched the paper back from his mother.

“What was that?” she asked. _ “Gin _ in your tea? That’s revolting, darling, my goodness. It's eight in the morning.”

Severus gave Harry a little pat on the cheek that he hoped read as pure confidence, and then retreated into the hallway to investigate his scrolls, excruciatingly aware of Harry’s eyes following his every step until he was out of sight. And there, huddled protectively towards the wall, he was rather quickly and soundly disappointed that he hadn’t just handed the letters over,  _ Mr. Withers Quail _ -less as they were. But he supposed he was being impatient. He’d only sent his inquiries the day before, and keeping Draco out of Azkaban was slightly more critical and time-sensitive than jewelry, even if it didn’t feel that way. So he told himself that surely Mr. Quail would write back soon, and when he returned to the dining room, he offered two of the three letters to Harry with no other explanation, save, “alas, not the secrets I was hoping for.” 

Lee Jordan’s, of course, did contain  _ some _ secrets, related as it was to one of Harry’s overdue gifts, so he withheld that one while Harry read the others, and took up the steaming mug waiting for him. It was untainted by sugar - prepared just the way he preferred - which he supposed was also a good sign.

“They’re coming this afternoon?” Harry asked, holding Hermione’s letter in one hand and his fork in the other. “I mean, I suppose they have to. We only have two more days to submit.”

“Who’s coming?” Draco asked, looking up from the paper. 

“Ron and Hermione,” Harry answered. “It says one o’clock… and…” His eyes moved over the text. “I guess we caught them just in time, since they’re going to Australia tomorrow. Hermione thinks that should give them a good buffer to get back if they’re called as witnesses or anything.”

“Australia?” Draco repeated, like that was absolutely the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. “What’s in Australia?”

“Hermione’s parents,” Harry said simply. “She erased their memories and sent them there during the war so they didn’t get… you know. Executed.” He shrugged. “They don’t even know she exists, so she has to go and collect them.”

“Oh.” Draco glanced at his mother. “Right. Of course. Of course she would have needed to… protect them from…” he trailed off, fidgeting with the edge of the newspaper. “They’re coming here? Today?”

“Yep,” Harry answered. “To give some memories. And, hey! They haven’t seen this place in ages. I bet they’ll be really impressed by how much Kreacher’s fixed it up.” He smiled at the elf, who was apparently already doing food-prep for lunch, and Kreacher beamed back at him through the creases and folds of his ancient face. “Can’t imagine how much work it’s been. Whole house looks completely different.”

“No trouble, Master Potter,” Kreacher croaked. “Kreacher is happy to brighten the house to suit Master’s preferences.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a big improvement. Last time we stayed here it was so spooky we all slept in a pile on the living room floor.” 

“A pile?” Severus asked. 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Like… all together, with sleeping rolls and things. I was usually in the middle.” He eyed Severus’ expression, and then grinned, and Severus had the slight impression that he was trying to get a bit of minor revenge. Trying to make Severus jealous. And he was jealous, really. Jealous of every moment lost to the silence between them, no matter who, or what, had taken his place, and no matter how feebly. “You do know we all lived in a freezing tent for seven months, right?”

“Yes, I believe I financed that operation with my scones,” Severus drawled back. “Though I wasn’t aware the three of you were a litter of puppies.”

“Ron is really warm.”

“Forgive me,” Narcissa interjected. “But that sounds appalling. Seven months? In a  _ tent?” _

“I mean… it was a magical tent, but… yeah,” Harry agreed. “It was pretty miserable. Especially while a bit of Voldemort’s soul was in there with us. Or two bits, I suppose. Bleh.” He shuddered, and then leaned over the table to offer his finger to Taz where she was investigating her reflection in Draco’s spoon. “Creepy.” 

Narcissa and Draco both looked at Severus. But he was not in the mood to explain, so he did not look back at them. It was a long story, and they could wait for  _ The Chosen One’s Chosen One Part Whatever. _

“Sometimes it wasn’t so bad, though,” Harry continued, as Taz butted her head gently against his finger. “When we had enough to eat, I mean. But even when it was awful, it was still better than being with strangers, or alone. I probably would have lost my mind without them, just starving out in the woods by myself.”

Narcissa raised her eyebrows meaningfully, and Severus crushed the urge to scowl back at her. She should know it had been complicated. She should know that he’d brought food as soon as he was aware that it was needed. Within minutes of seeing Harry’s ribs out in the snow, he’d gone for food, and she had no business looking at him like he’d _allowed it._

“When Ron left us, that was the worst time,” Harry continued, and Taz laid her spines flat against her head to accommodate his gentle stroking. “I really thought that was the end, but Hermione and I made it through, and then Ron and Severus came back on the same day. Well, nearly.” He smiled a little, his eyes distant, but then he refocused on Taz, and his face lit up. “Oh! I bet Hermione will  _ die  _ when she sees Taz! I wonder if Charlie told her? I think they’re all still staying together at the Burrow.” He wiggled his fingers and Taz raised her crest again. “Want to make a friend, Taz? She’s really nice, and I promise I won’t let her take you apart to see how you work. Eh, Razzamatazz?  _ Tazzberry.  _ Want to make a friend? Hermione is gonna  _ love you.”  _ Fire sprinkled out over the table, and Severus shielded his tea with his hand.

_ “‘Taz’ _ notwithstanding...” He turned to Draco, who was watching Harry like he was some sort of oracle that would stop speaking if anyone so much as twitched. “I’m hoping for a clearer version of the incident with Crabbe and Goyle. I’d consider that event critical to your defense, and yours was far too damaged to meaningfully submit.”

“Sorry,” Draco said. 

“Don’t be,” Severus answered. “You had a concussion.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you did, but I’m confident that I’ll be able to cobble together something adequately complete from Harry’s companions, even through the fear.” 

“Bet Hermione’s brain is annotated on the inside,” Harry chuckled. “Like going to the memory library. What about Madam Rosmerta? What did she see?” 

“I’m not entirely sure,” Severus answered. “And neither is Draco, but she was involved in sending for reinforcements, and it seemed significant, particularly as Draco had her under the  _ Imperius _ for so long. I’d hate to leave her in the wind without knowing how she feels about that.”

“Well… she did heal me,” Draco offered. “If she’d wanted to, she could have just shut the door in my face. She was the only person I could find, so it wasn’t as if there was anywhere else for me to go.” He rubbed his eyes. “I remember that much, but I guess it was garbled when it came out.” 

“No, that memory was just black,” Severus said. “It was the fire that was garbled.”

“When’s Rosmerta coming?” Harry asked, scanning her letter again. “Today, too? It doesn’t say.”

“No,” Severus answered. “She isn’t coming here. I will be going to her, as I have another errand to take care of in the area.”

“Ok,” Harry said. “We can go after Ron and Hermione are done, if it doesn’t take too long. Do you think it’ll take long?”

“No,” Severus began, running his thumb across a bit of condensation on the rim of his teacup, and tingling with unease at what he was about to say. “I don’t think it’ll take terribly long, but… I was hoping you would be willing to stay here at the house. With… the Malfoys.”

Harry looked up at him, startled. “What?” he asked. “Why?” 

He sounded quite alarmed, and in the ensuing silence at the table, Draco and Narcissa both returned their attention to the newspaper, and Taz looked back at the spoon.

“Secrets,” Severus repeated. “Which you will know in full, without exception, in their own good time.” He said it knowing perfectly well that Harry wouldn’t like it, and he was right. Harry didn’t like it, and he looked directly into Severus’ eyes, his focus pointed like an awl.

“Why?” he said again, and Severus did not look away, though he did think what he said next very loudly, just in case. 

_ Gift gift gift.  _

“Because surprises require secrecy, and I would be so disappointed if my incredibly involved gifts were ruined by something as trivial as a poorly-placed scroll, or an off-hand comment made by an idiot.” He took up his tea. “I did warn you that I was creative, didn’t I? I’ll hardly just pop over to Quality Quidditch Supplies and be done with it after waiting  _ two years.”  _

Harry scowled at him and leaned back in his seat, his body language forbidding, unwilling to be charmed. “What does, ‘in their own good time,’ mean?” he asked.

“Oh, I daresay by or before the 31st of July,” Severus answered, and Harry tensed and touched his bracelet.

_ [If you’re trying to tease me, I don’t really like it]  _ appeared on Severus’ wrist. _ [The last time I let you keep a secret from me it was unbelievably horrible, and I knew you were doing it, and I let you. Why would I do that again?] _

He pressed his thumb into his point, and Severus decided right then that nothing would ruin his plans quite as thoroughly as Harry’s shattered trust, and conjured a piece of parchment and a quill. 

“Secret number one,” he announced, flattening the sheet out for Harry to see and then writing a bold Roman numeral I, a colon, and continuing beside it with a flourish. “Severus received three letters, and only showed me two of them. The third is in his pocket.” He punctuated that, and moved down a line. “Secret number two: Severus very suspiciously wrote five letters while I was in the shower.” 

_ “Five?” _ Harry asked. “What five?” Severus moved down again. 

“Secret number three,” he said briskly. “Severus is reading a blank book, and I am not allowed to look at, or touch it.” He paused, and looked expectantly at Harry, waiting for him to ask. Which he did.

“What book?” 

“It’s a secret,” Severus answered. “And you aren’t allowed to look at, or touch it.” Harry glared at him. 

“Fine,” he sneered. “Secret number four: Severus doesn’t want me to come see Madam Rosmerta, but he won’t say why.” Severus nodded, carefully transcribing his dictation word for word. 

“It’s not her, though,” he said. 

“Who, then?” 

“It’s a secret.”

Harry scoffed loudly. “Secret number FIVE,” he said. “Severus won’t tell me who he’s going to see, which is not really very  _ polite.” _ Severus wrote that down, too - including the value judgement - and then pursed his lips. 

“These really are more like a single secret, you know.”

“Will you  _ stop,”  _ Draco said. 

“I think it’s sweet,” Narcissa countered, her eyes glittering conspiratorially. “Surprises are so lovely. Don’t you like surprises, darling?”

“Depends on the surprise, doesn’t it, mother?”

“Anything else that needs resolving?” Severus asked.

“What’s the other errand? You said you had another errand near the Three Broomsticks.”

“Secret number six…” Severus said, scratching out a VI: “Severus will not tell me his errand, and I am annoyed and possibly angry, and Severus is regretting this already, but is not going to back down because it’s too late.” 

“You are actually a  _ prick,”  _ Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Give that to me.” He snatched the parchment and read through the list. “I’m going to keep track of these,” he said. “I’m not just gonna forget.”

“I would expect nothing less of you,” Severus answered, and Harry’s nose wrinkled, but then he sighed, apparently in defeat.

“Fine,” he said. “I suppose forbidding you from leaving the house would make me a hypocrite. Just…” He picked at the edge of the paper, hesitating, his irritation fading visibly into what it really was: worry. “You aren’t going to go alone, are you? I mean… not that you can’t handle yourself, or anything.” He laughed a little, his lips twitching down at the corners. “But… you aren’t going out alone, right? Not until after the trial, or at least until the rest of Rita’s story is published. Loads of people still think… you’re a…” He touched his wrist, laying the pad of his thumb over the edge of his bracelet, and over the mark his struggling had left above it, but did not press. Instead, he took a deep breath. “That would be mad. To go out alone.” 

Severus had thought of that already, of course. In drafting his original letters, he’d thought of it. He didn’t much care for what he’d thought of, but he’d been prepared for Harry’s displeasure, and had known that there would likely need to be a compromise. Even if he could take care of himself perfectly well out in the wild tundra of Wizarding Britain, no matter what Gregory was up to, and no matter how many insignificant-yet-highly-concerned citizens were sending him Howlers and calling him a pedophile.

“Well,” he began. “As you’ve read, your friends will be arriving in a few hours, and I was thinking perhaps one of them might accompany me. A second pair of eyes, as it were. To… put you at ease.”

“What, Hermione?” Harry asked. 

“No…” Severus answered. “Not Hermione.”

***

Ron and Hermione appeared by apparition at one o’clock on the dot, bearing a basket of baked goods from Mrs. Weasley so large that it was the only thing immediately visible when Severus opened the door. Just… muffins.

“What in Merlin’s name is this?” he asked.

“Hullo,” Ron answered from behind the monstrosity. “Gift from my mum for the pair of you.” He thrust it into Severus’ hands. “Where’s Malfoy? Oi! This place looks  _ great!” _

“Good afternoon,” Hermione said, following him inside. “Apparently Mrs. Weasley was… moved… by the coverage in the Prophet. She was quite inconsolable and- oh, Harry!” She dashed away, leaving Severus standing there, his arms full of beribboned basket, listening to an almighty ruckus of reunion as if the three of them hadn’t seen each other mere days before. Though he supposed he should be pleased that Harry was in an emotional state that permitted him to squawk in delight. Even if  _ squawk of delight  _ was not one of his favorite Harry noises.

“Wonderful,” he sighed, and took the basket into the kitchen, where he immediately located Draco cowering in one corner.

“Are you cowering?” he asked, setting the basket on the island. 

“No,” Draco answered, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m just… getting some orange juice. I’m thirsty.”

“I see,” Severus said. “Kreacher?”

_ -pop- _

_ “Yes, Master Snape?”  _ Kreacher whispered. 

“There’s no need to  _ whisper,” _ Draco muttered. 

“Please do something with  _ this,”  _ Severus said, gesturing to the baked goods. “And, if you would, bring Draco an orange juice that is mostly, if not entirely, gin.” 

“Would Master Malfoy like ice?” Kreacher asked, and Severus raised his eyebrows at Draco, who nodded, looking surly. 

“Yes, thank you.” Severus leaned back against the counter, mirroring Draco’s body language. “They’re just Gryffindors, you know.”

_ “Just Gryffindors,” _ Draco spat back, turned red, and coughed. “I mean… I… am not cowering.”

Severus regarded him steadily, with the most Head-of-House look he could muster while in his shirtsleeves beside a gift basket. It was the sort of expression that, at school, had tended to make even the most wayward of Slytherins hemorrhage out their secrets, which was by design. He’d thought a bit about Draco’s behavior there in Number Twelve, and the quality of Draco’s memories, and was hoping he might respond well to interactions more in keeping with his  _ pre- _ apocalypse life. Before the Dark Lord press-ganged him into acting as Severus’ rival, and then gifted him as an object. Back when Draco had just been a student, and one of the brightest. 

“Well, you needn’t come upstairs quite yet, in any case,” he said. “Though I would suggest you make an appearance eventually. They’re here to help keep your neck out of the noose, after all. It’s only polite.”

“Is that meant to be comforting?” 

“It’s meant to be motivating, Mr. Malfoy,” Severus answered. “Or do you not want to be friendly with Ron Weasley?” He tsked gently. “And here I thought you were calculating.”

Draco scowled at the floor, refusing to take the bait. “Why are you leaving without Harry?” he asked, and though his expression flickered with discomfort so sharp it was almost fear, he did not immediately qualify or soften the question. He let it hang in the air like an accusation. But Severus was not to respond to Draco’s hackles with hackles of his own. Not again, no matter how satisfying it would be, or how soothing to his own anxiety. 

“I’ve other projects aside from you and your mother,” he said coolly. “But they’re quite innocent, not that it’s any of your business. Ah, here you are.” He took the glass from Kreacher’s hands and slid it across the kitchen island. “Relax, Draco. Everything is fine, and Harry’s friends are experts at letting go of old grudges. Take it from someone who knows. Hermione Granger lit me on fire, and here she is bearing gifts.”

“Yeah,” Draco said, and sneered into his drink. “I read about it in the newspaper. Salud on your new friends,  _ Sir.” _ He twitched his glass in a small salute, and took a swallow, and Severus decided that  _ Professor  _ was the way to go. Easier than trying for anything softer, anyway. After all they’d survived together, and all the nonsense he’d seen in Draco’s head… it was easier. Let him suction onto the most muscular Weasley, instead, and let Harry be his friend, if he wanted to be. 

More space was better.

As much space as he could offer. 

“Just one,” he said, nodding to the glass clutched in Draco’s hand. “At least for now. Wouldn’t want you sloppy.”

“Yes,  _ mother,”  _ Draco muttered, shrugging his shoulders in. “I can take care of myself.”

***

“So,” Ron said, plopping down onto the parlor sofa and patting the spot beside him for Hermione. “How are you feeling, mate? Last time we saw each other you went all  _ weird  _ and then liquified the ground at Bill’s house. Oh, thanks for fixing his face, by the way. Fleur screamed.”

“Ron, for goodness sake,” Hermione hissed, and smacked him on the arm, but Harry just laughed. 

“It’s alright,” he said. “That was a pretty weird day, and I figured about Fleur, since she sent me a huge bunch of flowers. But how’s Bill? I think I made him pretty sick. I didn’t mean to, but… he passed right out. Just  _ splat.  _ Scared me. Thought I killed him or something.”

“No, he’s GREAT,” Ron answered, holding out both hands. “Bloody  _ incredible.  _ Keeps eating bread and talking about how everything smells different, and Fleur keeps sort of staring at him all glazed-like and  _ petting him  _ and things. Like he’s even that good-looking. Oh, and he turned that volcanic glass you made into a bowl. Filled it with decorative pears.”

“But how are  _ you  _ feeling?” Hermione interjected. “I tried to do a bit of research after the service, but I don’t have access to a full library anymore, and I couldn’t find anything about that magical meditation you do in any of my own books, or anything at all about… well. Anything even remotely related.” She shrugged one shoulder, looking frustrated. “I was hoping maybe I could talk to Severus, and take a look at some of the Black heirloom books while I’m here. I remember the collection being pretty extensive, and I know he brought his own with him too, so - Wait! That reminds me.” She rummaged in her pockets and pulled out two tiny rectangles, tapped them with her wand, and restored them to full size. “I need to give these back.”

“Already?” Severus asked, returning unburdened from the kitchen. “I didn’t expect to see those for months.”

“Oh!” Hermione said. “Yes. Well, I- tend to-”

“Read at the pace of a  _ cheetah,”  _ Ron supplied. “Just  _ unbelievably, obnoxiously fast,  _ and for hours at a time. Oh, is that Harry’s handprint? Let’s see.” He sat up straighter and pointed to Severus’ open cuffs, and Severus sighed and pushed up his sleeve. “GROSS.”

“It’s not  _ gross,”  _ Hermione said. “It’s healing really well! It’s already all the way closed.”

“Yeah, well, it would have been closed ages ago if he hadn’t refused to let me vanish it outright,” Harry said, gave Severus a little smile, and scooted out of the armchair and onto the floor. “He wanted the scar, and now he has it, and he just had to pay the itch tax.”

_“Wow,”_ Ron laughed, while Severus took Harry’s newly vacated chair. “I dunno if that is fucking hard as hell, or embarassingly soft.” He hooked his arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Want to carve your name into my back, luv? For the scar? It’s like a _vow_ or something, ‘cept it _itches.”_

“Take care to put a towel down first,” Severus answered, and pulled Harry back against his legs by the collar. “And it isn’t itching much at all anymore.” He stroked his fingers across the back of Harry’s neck and up into his hair, giving it a gentle tug, and though he half-expected Harry to shy away, he didn’t. He leaned in, just like always, tipping his head back in a tiny, nonverbal,  _ ‘more, please.’ _ So, Severus gave him a little more, pressing his fingertips against the base of his skull, and into the tense muscles just below it. “And how are you two?” he continued, his mind at least ninety-percent on Harry’s breath leaving him in a gentle sigh. “Other than furiously baking, that is.”

“My mum made all that, not  _ me,”  _ Ron answered, apparently offended at the implication that he might have personally made fifty muffins for Severus Snape. 

“We’re doing well,” Hermione said. “House is a bit crowded, but we make do.”

“Once my mum gave up trying to put Hermione in Ginny’s room, anyway,” Ron added, rolling his eyes. “Stupid. Plenty of space with me, eh?” He gave Hermione a squeeze, and she blushed hotly.

“Yes, well,” she said. “We’ve decided that the best way to retrieve my parents is by Muggle jet, as it’s much too far for apparition, and there aren’t enough intermediaries, and Mr. Weasley is very excited.”

“Just beside himself over it,” Ron said. “Almost wet his pants when he saw the tickets.”

“But - you’re taking a  _ plane?” _ Harry asked. “Merlin, Ron, really?”

“Hermione assures me it’s perfectly safe,” Ron said. “Hurtling through space in a non-magical metal tube that has no business being in the sky at all. It’s science, you know.  _ Science.  _ Like… telephones. And… blenders. Or whatever.”

“It  _ is _ science!” Hermione insisted. “And it’s not in ‘space,’ it’s just the upper atmosphere. I’ve done it four times. How do you think Muggles go on holiday?” 

“Suppose they walk.”

“I’ve never taken a plane,” Harry said, and gave Severus’ leg a little nudge. “Have you?”

“No,” Severus answered. “I was either far too poor, or far too magical to get anywhere near one. Though I’ve heard they’re quite terrible. Cramped, you know. And… filthy.” 

“Sounds fun,” Harry chuckled. “Maybe you can take me to Australia later.”

“I will not,” Severus said. “I’ll have you know that entire country is infested with enormous spiders.”

“It’s WHAT?” Ron yelped.

  
  
  



	21. Granger, Hermione

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my beloved readers: I have been low on Brain Energy and am way behind on answering comments but please don't think I'm not reading them! I am reading and hanging on every word and I love them all. Also... this part is gonna be even LONGER

Severus had not been aware that Ron Weasley suffered from a paralyzing terror of spiders, but by the time he and Hermione successfully managed to convince him that ‘enormous’ and ‘infested’ were turns of phrase and not literal, Severus certainly was aware of it. Which was surprising, as he was relatively sure that he’d seen Ron facing down Acromantulas during the battle without losing his mind, but he supposed they’d all faced their fears that night. And so, after assuring Ron that the spiders in Australia were well within normal size limits (which he did not think was strictly true), and that there were a normal and non-alarming number of them (which he also doubted), he decided that Ron needed time to calm down if he was going to supply anything but spider-related memories, and took Hermione upstairs first. 

And so, he held open the library door for a very nervous-looking war heroine, and carried her books, and gestured her towards his now well-used arrangement of sofa, armchair, and side table. 

“Sorry about Ron,” she said, perching herself where he indicated. “He has a spider thing.”

“I gathered that,” Severus answered, settling himself into the chair across from her. “My apologies for triggering it. I should have mentioned the venomous snakes, instead.”

She smiled wanly. “He’s been that way as long as I’ve known him. Quite odd, really. He isn’t particularly afraid of anything else. Not heights, or Dementors, or rats, or blood, or anything. He can be so brave. But spiders?  _ No.”  _

“We all have something,” Severus said, and when Hermione gave him a skeptical look, continued. “I, for example, am quite abjectly and irrationally terrified of first years.” 

“Is that what your boggart is?” she laughed. “A first year?”

“Neville Longbottom specifically.” 

That just made her laugh harder, and Severus sat back and crossed his legs, rather pleased with his attempt at breaking the tension, though he had no idea why it was quite  _ that _ funny. 

“Tell me,” he began, once she’d gotten herself under control. “How familiar are you with Legilimency?” He folded his hands over one knee, leaving his wand unattended on the side table. He was starting to get the impression that conjuring his bottles right away was making people uncomfortable, and he did not want to make this any harder than it needed to be. After watching Hermione stand unflinchingly between Lupin’s wand and his head, and after taking her hand in his moment of greatest fragility, he wanted this to be as easy as possible for her. “I assume you know the theory.”

“I do,” she answered. “I studied up on it back in fifth year, while you were… um. Tutoring Harry. But it sounded a bit…” she hesitated, and cleared her throat. “He told me that it feels… Well, he made it sound like - it sounded like being… violated.” 

She grimaced, and Severus looked down at his hands. “I have never issued a specific apology for that debacle,” he said wryly. “Perhaps I should. But keep in mind that I was attempting to teach Harry to _ resist.  _ And more than that, to resist the most callous and formidable Legilimens to ever walk the earth, which is not even remotely the goal here. I will not be forcing anything, and though it will likely be uncomfortable, the eldest Weasley brothers have submitted to this interrogation, and so have the Malfoys, and all of them recovered quickly from the after-effects.” Not Draco, but she didn’t need to know that.

“I looked those up, too,” she said. “The after-effects. The text I found listed eleven.” She started counting on her fingers. “Nausea. Disorientation. Panic. Sweating. Vertigo…”

“Precipitous drop in blood pressure,” Severus added. “Visual distortions. Loss of consciousness. Emotional upset. Vomiting. Tremor. But this will be quick. I don’t need much from you at all, and will be pulling from the surface, not the depths.”

“Does that make a difference?”

“Oh, yes. All the difference in the world.” 

Hermione nodded. “The book said that, too.”

“I take it you read  _ ‘Scouring the Senses’?”  _ Severus asked.

“No,” Hermione answered. “Actually, it was the standard issue DMLE Interrogation Handbook. I found a copy in the Burrow. Out of date, but only by five years. Did you know that  _ veritaserum _ is fatal in high enough doses?” Severus raised an eyebrow at her, and she chuckled. “Oh, I suppose you did know that.”

“Anything is fatal in high enough doses, Miss Granger,” he said. “But tell me this, did the DMLE Interrogation Handbook get into the mechanics, or was it more concerned with the correct balance of fear and sleep deprivation?”

“Mostly the fear and sleep deprivation, as I recall.”

“Pity,” Severus said. “It’s quite a delicate discipline, and I understand that the DMLE tends to use outside contractors. Apparently they have trouble recruiting individuals of the necessary intellectual caliber. Now, if you would…” 

He proceeded to describe the method he was about to employ - with an appropriately heavy academic slant - got Hermione’s consent, and  _ then _ conjured his bottles, and having done it in that order, it did feel more polite. Rather like he should have done that from the beginning, but there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on that, now. His rough edges were likely to persist into the distant future no matter how he felt about them, and Harry seemed to want them to stay, anyway. 

He raised his wand, and Hermione’s eyes lifted. They were brown, and deep - the color of varnished mahogany - and if they looked a little tired, they were still just as alight with intelligence as they’d been on the day he’d first met her, bouncing up and down on her seat with her hand in the air.

_ “Legilimens.”  _

Her recall of the fire was staggeringly excellent, and only slightly smudged at the edges by what must have been an extremity of mortal terror, and Severus watched Draco join their little trio of freedom fighters like he belonged there, and watched him yank Hermione back from certain death by immolation and into his arms, and Severus watched, freshly awed - which he rather thought he was beyond - as Harry screamed into Draco’s face and dragged him onto a blackened broom, and as Hermione supplied the crucial information that  _ Fiendfyre _ was capable of destroying Horcruxes. One of which, of course, was  _ in Harry’s hand,  _ and Severus watched through the billowing smoke as he hurled the disgusting thing into the baking inferno of monsters below them, with Draco’s face buried against the back of his shirt, and Draco’s hands clutched desperately to his waist. 

He labeled the bottle,  _ ‘Granger, Hermione: how are any of you alive?’  _ erased that, and replaced it with,  _ ‘Granger, Hermione: Draco Malfoy betrays Junior Deatheaters, locates and destroys Horcrux #5 with Harry Potter et. al. [complete].” _

Bolstered by the quality of that one, he moved on quickly to the fiasco at Malfoy Manor, only to be confronted with what might have been the most horrifically damaged memory he had ever seen in his life. Though he supposed he hadn’t ever attempted to access a memory encoded while  _ under  _ the cruciatus before. He hadn’t meant to do it right then, either, and as soon as he realized what he was seeing, he terminated the extraction at once and bade Hermione put her head below her heart.

“I’m sorry,” he said, conjuring a glass of water and a damp cloth. “I didn’t intend to - I mean - I don’t need that one. It isn’t relevant. I’m sorry.”

“No - It’s alright,” Hermione answered, blindly taking the towel from his hands and covering her face with it. “I’m fine. It just - surprised me. I’d forgotten a bit - how it felt. Is - um - is tingling in the extremities a typical side-effect?” She swallowed hard, like she was perhaps experiencing something in the nausea/vomiting side of the spectrum as well. “It wasn’t… wasn’t in the book. Is that common?”

No,  _ tingling _ wasn’t typical at all, though he supposed it might be considered a tactile flashback or something of that nature. But he didn’t know for sure, as no one had ever forced  _ him _ back into one of his bouts under the  _ cruciatus,  _ and he didn’t think he would care for it if they did.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said. “Try to slow your breathing.” 

“Could you see those speckles?” she continued, her voice tremulous, but determined. “Sort of… snow. Like a storm. But grey. Did you see that?” Her head was still between her knees, and her fingertips were white, but Severus could hear in the insistence of her tone that she wanted this to remain an academic exercise, and did not want to be comforted. Not that he thought he could comfort her, even if she did want that.

“I did not see any snow, grey or otherwise,” he answered, his fingers twitching unconsciously towards his bracelet. “Just some… visual distortion. Nothing to worry about.” 

What he’d seen were blind spots. Hundreds of them, if not thousands, backlit like tiny thunderheads, swirling and multiplying like embers in a struck fire, and bleeding out in all directions from the point of torture. Searing holes into the hours before and after, leaving nothing behind but a delicate lacework of sound and color.

“Could you see Draco trying to lie?” she asked. “He did try to lie for us, even though all those people were there. His parents, and Bellatrix, and Wormtail, and Greyback, and the snatchers. They were all  _ right there.  _ It was so dangerous, but he still… I can do it better. Make it clearer. Let me try again.”

Severus did not want her to try again. He did not want to force or allow Harry’s people to relive their trauma if it wasn’t necessary, and this was not necessary. 

“Was Ronald put under the cruciatus?” he asked. 

“No,” she answered. “They wanted a Mudblood.”

She said it quite matter-of-factly, and Severus’ stomach twisted like a coil of thick rope creaking between an iron peg and a storm-whipped mainsail. Tight and crushing around his heart and lungs.

They. Wanted. A Mudblood.

“I’ll take it from him, then,” he said. “I don’t need a duplicate.” 

She nodded shakily, and Severus looked away, fixing his gaze on the water in his hands, wanting to give her space to compose herself. He charmed a few ice cubes into it, and then, once she’d sat up and wiped her face, handed it to her. 

“Is there anything else you saw?” he asked as she took a cautious sip and then held the cold glass against her cheek. “For either of them. Draco or Narcissa. Anything sympathetic, or even neutral, or implied. It will be up to the Wizengamot to wade through what I submit, and I’d prefer it to be… well-rounded.” 

“Um…” she began, carefully setting her water aside. “We saw Draco out in the grounds. The three of us, when he was being taken by that Deatheater. What was his name? The big one.”

“Thorfin Rowle,” Severus supplied.

“Yes, Rowle, that’s right. It was in the distance, but we did see it. Do you want that?”

“Yes,” Severus answered. “If you would, please.” 

_ ‘Granger, Hermione: Draco Malfoy abducted by T. Rowle.’ _

“Anything else?”

_ ‘Granger, Hermione: Narcissa Malfoy, unarmed, screaming for son.’ _

_ ‘Granger, Hermione: Draco Malfoy saves Luna Lovegood from Avada Kedavra (caster B. Lestrange).’ _

_ ‘Granger, Hermione: Draco Malfoy targeted by Deatheater combatants by name.’ _

_ ‘Granger, Hermione: Harry Potter expresses confidence in Draco Malfoy, describes acts of disloyalty against Dark Lord.’ _

That last one, Severus had not expected.

“He told you that?” he asked, his ears positively ringing with Harry’s voice saying the words,  _ ‘Draco is sort of… Severus’ property. His father can’t save him, and he can’t save himself. It was the only way.’  _ There, sitting on a stone garden wall outside what must have been Shell Cottage - his safehouse - with Severus’ teeth marks black on his neck, and Hermione’s face white and hands shaking, a yellow rose tucked behind her ear.  _ ‘Severus has been beating the living hell out of him since August.’ _

“Oh, yes,” Hermione answered. “He told us all kinds of things. What a nightmare.” She shivered and looked into the middle distance, her eyes bearing the sort of expression one might see on the face of a much older woman. Someone worldly. Hardened. How old was she? Eighteen? “I don’t want Draco to go to Azkaban,” she said. “He doesn’t deserve that.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Severus answered. “But he won’t, and neither will his mother.” He laid his wand beside the bottles bearing Hermione’s name. “This has been immensely helpful, and I thank you for your patience with the process, but now I think it would be good for you to eat something, if you can. Is there anything you’d like? Kreacher is an excellent cook.”

Hermione’s expression pinched unexpectedly, and she lifted her chin. “I know he is,” she said. “But I’d prefer to get something for myself. I don’t care terribly for slavery, you see. Not of any kind.”

“Ah,” Severus allowed, sitting back. “Well, as it so happens, I’ve recently come into a great wealth of muffins, to which you are more than welcome.” He said it hoping she might laugh again, at least a bit, but she didn’t. She blushed instead, the high color stark and strange on her pallid cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she said, averting her eyes. “That was rude of me. I didn’t mean to say that, or - or to imply that _you-”_

“No harm done, Miss Granger,” Severus interjected. “You’re quite right, and I am not particularly fond of subjugation myself, though I have been forced to participate in it a number of times, as you know. But if it makes you feel any better, I don’t foresee ever having to engage in that sort of playacting again, and while I doubt very much that Kreacher would accept clothes if they were offered, Harry does not treat him like a slave.” 

“Harry doesn’t treat anyone like a slave,” Hermione said.

“No,” Severus agreed. “Slaves rarely do.”

Hermione’s eyes flickered, and she tapped her fingers against the upholstery in a nervous little staccato, and Severus, recognizing the signs of internal debate, did not speak. He just waited.

“I have a question,” she finally said, and Severus tilted his head in invitation, steeling himself for some kind of Harry-related interrogation. Something about Harry’s alarming collapse at the service, possibly, or about the interview with Rita, or more about what he’d had to do to Draco. Maybe she was going to ask him if he’d been loyal, or, as had always been possible, maybe Hermione Granger had decided that she needed to know the truth that Severus had withheld from her when he nicked her best friend straight from adolescence and into his bed. When he’d proceeded to tell her that Harry’s absences from breakfast were perfectly respectable, and not to trouble herself about his suicide attempt, and to please lie to everyone on his behalf. 

It would be justified, he thought, and if she’d suddenly decided that he was not worthy of Harry’s love, or that he needed to explain himself in some other way, he would explain himself, and attempt to convince her otherwise. He was becoming something of an expert in that arena.

And it would be a bit of extra practice, besides.

“Did you burn down Privet Drive?” 

Or maybe she was going to ask him _ that.  _

“I thought so,” Hermione continued, nodding sagely before Severus could even begin to respond verbally. “I saw it in the Prophet, and I just knew it must have been you. That you must have… seen it. Where he was _ kept.” _ She held her glass against her lips, and her eyes hardened into flinty points, though they did not seem to be directed at him. “...were they inside?”

“No,” Severus answered, annoyed with himself for being caught so incredibly off-guard. Of course she’d  _ know.  _ Of course. There were a highly limited number of data points required to deduce that he’d done it. One: He loved Harry. Two: Harry was abused by the Dursleys. Three: He found out about it. That was it, and it was possible that he’d made an enormous mistake, though he supposed that hinged on how many people knew what the Dursleys had done. “No one was inside. It was empty.” 

He did not say that he regretted that fact. He did not tell her that he still would have done it - that he would gladly have torched the damned place to the foundation and listened to the screaming - but Hermione nodded again, her expression closed as if she’d heard all of it anyway, but didn’t disagree. Or, perhaps, that she simply planned to keep his secret, the way she had before. But this was Hermione Granger, so he waited for her composure to crack and spill out all of her questions. For her to ask why he’d had occasion to go there in the first place, or why, precisely, he’d done it when he did, or what he’d seen, or heard, or assumed. He waited for her to ask _anything,_ anything at all, but she didn’t, and he realized that his old fear was perfectly correct: that to have survived as Harry’s friend, she’d learned not to. 

“They starved him,” he blurted. 

“I know,” Hermione answered. “We used to send him food, when we were children. Cakes and things, nothing terribly substantial. We didn’t know better. But there were… bars. On the windows. I never saw them myself, but Ron told me about it after he and the twins broke Harry out. His Aunt and Uncle weren’t going to let him come back to school. They were keeping him locked up. Away from his magic, and his books, and his owl, and us, and everything, and feeding him scraps through the catflap in the door. He was twelve. Just… barely twelve.” She looked up at him. “Why do you think I believed what you told me?”

Severus looked blankly back at her as she sipped at her water, unable to think of a single thing to say, but wishing he’d known about the bars so that his  _ Fiendfyre _ might have been cast with more malice, and thinking that he should thank her. And Ron, too. For sending Harry food when no one else knew he was hungry. For following Harry into danger. For loving Harry in his absence, as they obviously had, and for keeping Harry alive when Severus couldn’t get to him. For putting him in the middle when they slept together on the floor, and for starving beside him in the snow. 

The three of them, together, like the struts of a tripod, holding up the world. 

“My parents are dentists, you know,” Hermione said, apparently apropos of nothing. “Or… they were, and I hope they will be again. I’ve been thinking a lot about them since the end of the war. Missing them, and worrying that I won’t be able to put them to rights when I get to them.” She studied her own fingertips, wet with gathered droplets, clasped around the glass. “What I did to them… I did it a little bit… fast. No time to practice, you know? And I took everything. Just  _ everything.  _ I gave them new names. New careers. New hobbies. I made them childless, so they wouldn’t know to miss me if - if I -” She broke off with an agonized little laugh, embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m sure you aren’t interested in my parents. It’s just… I made a list of everything I could think of about their personalities. How they were before I obliviated them. As much as I could remember. Little things, and big things. I’ve been working on it at night while Ron’s asleep, and my mum, she loved art - watercolors, and gouache the most, but charcoal and sculpture and photography, too - and she was a terrible cook, but an excellent gardener. When the weather was good, she always smelled like rosemary and cut grass. And my dad… he played the trumpet, but killed just about every plant he touched, and was always reading. Military history in particular, that was what he liked, and not just books, either. He had all kinds of memorabilia and films and things, and would talk for hours and hours. So… with the pair of them, I was always in museums. Always. The National Gallery… the Tate… Churchill’s War Rooms… the Maritime Museum. Always, always in museums. Following them around, and listening to them talk, and looking where they pointed before I could even read the signs.” She smiled wistfully. “It’s funny, looking back on how I grew up, seems like maybe my mum really wanted to be a painter, but didn’t have the eye, and my dad really wanted to be a soldier, but was born between wars. Muggle ones, anyway. So…” She shrugged. “Dentists.”

“Well,” Severus began, treading carefully, unsure of where she was taking him but wanting to come along. “What a blessing for your family. It is so very rare, in human society, for anyone to come of age between wars.” 

“I didn’t realize how rare until quite recently,” Hermione said. “All of that always seemed so remote. Just something he liked to talk about.  _ The Battle of the Bulge. The African Campaign. _ All the mad names… Operation  _ Torch, _ and  _ Overlord,  _ and  _ Market Garden. _ Like a storybook. Not real.” She looked down at her shoes, and Severus looked at them, too. Trainers. Scuffed ones. Like Harry’s. 

What did she want him to say?

“For a father with such idealized notions of military service,” he said, watching her body language. “I can’t imagine his pride, when you’re able tell him what you’ve achieved. In ten years you might gift him a history book with you in it. Or in two years. Or one. Maybe even with your byline.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Hermione answered, wiping her eyes with the pad of one finger. “But I do hope to be able to tell him. I hope to be able to restore them both enough for them to understand, and the fact that their new personalities seem not to have fully taken is promising. But… there was something I wanted to ask you. Something I thought of - or remembered - while I was making my list, and wondering how I would explain all of this to them. How I’d explain about Harry, and the Horcruxes, and all the people we lost, and about you, and… and everything after. I’ve been trying to figure out what we call it, without any luck.”

“We?”

“Witches and Wizards,” she clarified. “For a people with so much violent conflict in their history, the literature is shockingly thin. Almost absent.” She cleared her throat. “Are you familiar with shell shock?”

***

Draco lingered uncertainty outside the parlor door with Taz, as usual, on his shoulder. He’d nursed that one cocktail for as long as he could manage, but when Kreacher offered him a second, he’d reluctantly declined. Snape had told him just one, and Snape had told him to make nice with Ron Weasley, and that really was a very smart thing to do. He could hardly just pen-pal with Charlie forever without facing the fact that his little brothers had tried to beat Draco to a bloody pulp for calling their mother a pig, could he? Or the fact that he’d actually almost murdered Ron specifically. But, then… that had been more like reckless endangerment, hadn’t it? He hadn’t  _ meant  _ to poison Ron. He’d been trying to poison the Headmaster. That was better, wasn’t it? They obviously didn’t hate Snape for _ successfully _ killing Dumbledore, so how could they hate him for failing?

Unless they hated him for bringing Greyback into Hogwarts to maul the eldest.

But… Harry had fixed that, too, hadn’t he? He got flowers for it. And… if the Weasley’s hated him, Charlie wouldn’t be writing to him.

Right?

He glanced at Taz, and then back at the door, torn. 

Maybe he  _ could _ just pen-pal Charlie forever. Just flee upstairs before anyone noticed him, and hope for the best. He wasn’t dressed well enough for a showdown, anyway. He was in a jumper, and it had a hole in it. A little one, but still. 

Tugging at his collar, he was just on the verge of creeping away to hide in his room, when Ron’s voice coming through the open door caught his attention. 

_ ‘I’m telling you, mate, he’s totally arse over teakettle about it. And what, he thinks I don’t know why he’s staaaaring into space? Come on. Like I’m a bleeding idiot. I have eyes, don’t I?’  _

_ ‘That obvious, eh?’ _

_ ‘It’s worse than you and SNAPE, alright? I keep thinking he’s going to walk right into a wall. Just right into a fucking wall. Poor sod. Never seen him try so hard. But did Malfoy like the sweets? Gin told me all about it. Charlie bribed her not to, but you know how she is. Bloody sneak, all over. Spilled everything while she was still eating her fucking chocolate.’ _

Draco flushed and glared at the high shine of his shoes. Excellent. They were talking about him, and so, apparently, was everyone else. 

_ ‘Ha! That’s bold.’ _

_ ‘She’s a bold bint. But did he like them? Charlie’s chewing off his own hands.’ _

_ ‘I mean… I think he liked them,’  _ Harry answered.  _ ‘He seemed happy when he opened the box, but I didn’t see him actually eat any. Severus distracted me.’ _

_ ‘Bet he did, you absolute harlot.’ _

_ ‘Oi!’ _

_ ‘You TART. Can’t make it two hours!’ _

Draco leaned closer to the door, interested. Just how much, exactly, did Ron and Hermione know about what Harry was up to? And at school, too. What about _ that?  _ Had they  _ known?  _ Covered for him, maybe, while he was creeping around? Scandal.

He gestured for Taz to be quiet. 

“It’s rude to  _ eavesdrop,”  _ Narcissa hissed into his ear, and Draco had an actual, honest-to-god heart attack. 

***

“Shell shock,” Severus repeated evenly, reaching out to neaten the fresh collection of sparkling, violence-riddled memories. “I am familiar with the phenomenon, yes, though that term is somewhat out of date.” He paused, one finger on the stopper of the last bottle, weighing the relative merits of telling this to her outright, when he had not spoken of it in years, or of couching the story in scholarly language. But it would serve no purpose to pretend to be above it, really, and might even do harm. And it was in keeping with his new self to just tell her, anyway. It wasn’t as if it was a secret. Or, at least, not a deliberate one. Just the sort of thing adults did not speak of casually, or in casual company. “I think that you already know of my parentage, Miss Granger,” he said.

“Half-Blood,” she answered. 

“Yes, Half-Blood,” he agreed. “My mother was a Witch, and my father, a Muggle. Like yours in some ways, I’m sure, but also… not like yours. My father, Tobias Snape, had no ambitions of becoming a soldier as far as I am aware, but he did not manage to squeak by between wars. He was born in the summer of 1922, and so had no choice. He was a Staff Sergeant in her Majesty’s Armed Forces, and  _ he -  _ well. Yes, I am familiar with shell shock, as it lived in my house.” It lived in his new house, too, but Hermione probably already knew that, if she’d been reading about it. “But I understand that his discharge papers called it ‘combat fatigue.’”

“They call it post-traumatic stress, now,” Hermione answered. “I suppose Muggles figured out it isn’t just caused by combat.”

“No, nor by explosive shells,” Severus said. “But in Wizarding society I believe we just call it  _ ‘madness.’ _ Or, occasionally,  _ ‘weakness.’”  _ He sighed. “You might say we are a bit behind in that regard.” 

Hermione looked at him critically, and her frown, when it came, was thoughtful, and inexpressibly sad.

“I was thinking it might be called  _ ‘constant vigilance,’” _ she said, and that made Severus smile, though it was not even remotely funny. 

“Very perceptive,” he said. “Ten points to Gryffindor for insight, and ten points from Gryffindor for meddling.” 

Hermione smiled then, too. “I’m already nostalgic, isn’t that silly?”

“Nostalgic?” Severus asked. “For what? Top marks, I suppose. You must have missed exams terribly from your tent.”

She shot him a look. “Don’t think I won’t be going back for my NEWTS once I get organized,” she said. “After all that work, I’ll hardly wander out into the world without  _ NEWTS.” _

“I pity the proctor who attempts to examine you, Miss Granger.”

“Oh, ha,” Hermione scoffed, and set her glass aside. “So, if Wizards don’t even have a word for it, what happens if you go to St. Mungo’s with combat fatigue?” 

“The same thing they do if you go to a Muggle Hospital, unfortunately,” Severus answered, and spread his hands. “They send you home.”

  
  



	22. An Errant Errand

By the time Severus returned to the parlor to trade Hermione out for Ron, he’d laden her down with three new books about magical meditation and the general principles of retreating inward in order to withstand external stressors, as well as a brief but thorough instruction in soothing breathing exercises. For though Hermione had layered her questions in an implied concern for Harry, Severus was not a fool.  _ ‘I’ve been cataloguing my lost parent’s personalities on paper in the middle of the night while my partner is asleep,’  _ was an alarming thing to say, and if Harry was perhaps the most damaged person Severus had ever encountered,  _ damage _ was not a competition, and Hermione Granger was a girl, the way Harry and Ron and Draco were still boys. Children, all of them, the way Lily and Regulus and Fred Weasley had been children when they died. The way Severus had been a child, masquerading as a man, when he took his first life, and the way his father, freezing in the Saxony winter had been a child, and returned to the motherland still a child. Prone to tantrums and outbursts, preserved in boyhood for all time. Even with a wife, and a son, and a home, and a respectable factory job, he’d died a boy. An angry, resentful, confused, violent boy, at the age of fifty-eight. Soaked in alcohol. Pickled in confusion, and fear, and hate, never to grow up, and never to gain the insight needed to stop terrorizing his family. But also, small mercy, never to see his son turn into the arms of the very same kinds of men he’d torn his own psyche apart to fight on Her Majesty’s behalf.

Tobias Snape might have been buried having no idea at all about Wizarding politics - had, in fact, despised the very concept of magic - but he would have recognized the Deatheaters for what they were, Severus was sure. Wizards and Muggles were not so unlike each other, after all, and Severus’ father had seen the camps. Tobias Snape had seen his own features in the gaunt faces looking out from behind the fences, and staring blindly up out of the pits. 

He’d seen it, and he would have known. 

Running his fingertips over the thin, silken, intensely sensitive imprint of Harry’s hand under his sleeve, Severus followed Hermione into the living room, so consumed with the past that he did not at once register that it was quite a party. That Taz was on Harry’s head, flapping, and that Draco was sitting on the floor next to Kreacher and a pile of mail, and Narcissa and Ron were each constructing parts of what seemed to be a fortress of envelopes on the coffee table.

Hermione stopped so abruptly that Severus would have knocked her flat if he hadn’t stopped just as abruptly. 

How long had they been gone? An hour and a half?

“This one is from,  _ ‘Matron Selina of Kent,’” _ Kreacher croaked, holding out a fresh letter in coral pink. “Read pile or discard pile, Master Potter?”

“I’ve no idea who that is,” Harry answered. “Give it to Draco.”

“Discard!” Kreacher said, and frisbeed the envelope over. Draco caught it, laughed snidely at the appliqué hearts, and passed it to his mother, who settled it carefully against another as support. 

“Who  _ are _ all these people?” Draco asked.

“Dunno,” Harry answered. “Fans, I guess. This crate is nothing compared to the whole hoard, though. It’s mad. I bet McGonagall is still getting  _ loads.  _ Can’t imagine how bad it’ll be when everyone figures out where I am. _ ”  _ He glanced up and caught sight of Hermione and Severus in the doorway. “That wasn’t long. How’d it go?”

“What is on your head?” Hermione asked.

“Dragon,” Harry answered, reached up, and coaxed Taz onto his palm. “She’s really friendly. Come say hello.”

“Ooh,” Hermione cooed, leaving Severus in the doorway. “Did you make that?”

“Her,” Harry corrected, holding her out. “And yeah. Her name’s Taz. We’re building her an envelope castle.” 

“She just loves paper,” Draco added. “But her name’s  _ Anastasia.  _ Taz is her nickname.”

“But… she’s made of paper,” Hermione said, cautiously leaning closer to get a better look. “Isn’t she? She looks like ori-” She jerked back as Taz sprayed fire directly into her face.

“Watch out,” Ron laughed. “She does this confetti thing. It’s really abrupt and shocking if no one warns you.”

“Goodness!” Hermione spluttered, shaking shreds out of her hair and off of her shirt. “What did you make her out of? A book?”

_ “Thin air,”  _ Narcissa answered, just as Harry said, “I would  _ never,”  _ and Ron chuckled. 

“Saint Harry bringing forth LIFE,” he said, and stretched out his legs. “Suppose it’s my turn to be lobotomized, is it?”

“It is,” Severus answered. “If you aren’t too busy assisting Harry with his… correspondences, of course.” He met Harry’s eyes, and Harry smiled a little and touched his bracelet, though he did not stop chattering to Hermione even as his message appeared on Severus’ wrist. 

_ [No, I am not trying to upset myself]  _ Severus read.  _ [I’m not reading any of them. Promise] _

“Nah, never too busy for you,  _ Severus,” _ Ron said, standing up and straightening his jumper. “And my brain is full of priceless insights, so we’d better get a move on.”

Severus held Harry’s gaze for a moment longer, hoping to communicate his displeasure at the idea of Harry so much as opening a single letter without having it pre-screened, before turning his attention to Ron, where it would have to stay for the next while. 

“I’m sure it’s like the Library of Alexandria,” he said, and gestured out into the hall. “Please.”

Ron clapped his hands together. “Right. Where’s your torture chamber? The scary basement?”

Severus scoffed, and was going to leave it there, but just as they stepped through the door, his bracelet warmed once more, this time with the delicate suggestion:  _ [Oh, tell him the torture chamber’s the bedroom. He called me a harlot]  _

Severus glanced over his shoulder at Harry apparently focused on Taz, and then looked back at Ron. “I do all my torturing in the bedroom,” he said lightly. “I’ve installed reinforced posts. It’s a multi-purpose space.”

“Oi!” Ron wheezed. “Too much information, mate! Merlin.” 

***

Terribly unprepared to follow through with the banter he initiated though he was, Ron Weasley turned out to be rather less difficult to work with than Severus had anticipated. His memories were not quite as razor-sharp as Hermione’s, or half as organized as Narcissa’s, but they were clear enough (and free of anachronistic spiders), and there was something about his temperament that seemed to keep fear from destroying his recall. Even during the events of the Manor, surrounded by starved and wounded captives and with Hermione’s horrific screams bleeding through the ceiling, his memories were lucid, if very saturated with color. 

It was, then, with four vials filled and labeled, that Ron sat back in his seat, apparently unruffled by the invasive experience, and offered him a bonus. 

“Well,” he said. “I think that’s all I’ve got about the Malfoys.”

“This is plenty,” Severus answered, sliding,  _ ‘Weasley, Ronald: Draco Malfoy releases R. Weasley and H. Potter from captivity, submits to restraint to preserve life,’  _ out of the way. “After Rosmerta, I should have the complete set.”

“Golden,” Ron said, and sat back. “So… wanna see me hit Lupin?”

Severus paused. “Lupin? I don’t believe that act of heroism is relevant to the trial.”

“Nah, it probably isn’t,” Ron agreed. “But… I think maybe you want to see it anyway.” He shifted in his seat. “Since… it happened to Harry, and… well. D’ya wanna see? He really deserved it. Lupin, I mean.”

Severus narrowed his eyes, scanning Ron’s complexion and posture. He really did seem fine, and though Severus couldn’t imagine that he felt the need to curry favor, his phrasing was suspicious. That, and  _ ‘do you want to see Remus Lupin get punched in the face by a teenage boy,’ _ wasn’t really a question, was it? 

“I… suppose I do,” he said, and lifted his wand.  _ “Legillimens.” _

***

Harry had told him. Harry had told him through the bracelets and in person that Remus shook him, and that he’d done it more than once. That Remus berated him, screamed at him, and tried to convince him that what Severus had done to him was rape. Harry had told him, and yet somehow, Severus hadn’t ever quite put those pieces of information together into the scene he’d just witnessed, and so had not felt - at least not so viscerally - what he was feeling now. Which happened to be a heart-pounding, magic-prickling, vision-tunneling need to  _ defend. _

_ ‘Deserved’ _ it? 

Severus would have strangled him for it.

“My god,” he said. 

“Yep,” Ron answered.

“What was he thinking?”

Ron just shook his head like the whole situation was absurd. “No idea, honestly,” he said. “It was like he lost his mind, the mad bastard. After Harry said that thing about the letter, and pushed him back, he totally snapped. Broke his jaw for it, though, didn’t I?” He flexed his right hand, and then rubbed it across his mouth. “Listen, I always liked Lupin. Thought he was a good bloke. Nice, and a great teacher, even if he is a werewolf or whatever. I’m not a bigot, eh? But after what happened in the Hospital Wing… no  _ way _ was I going to let him alone with Harry, even if I hadn’t the faintest idea what the problem even was. I mean…” He let out a low whistle. “That night, when Hagrid found Harry out in the grounds and brought him back to the castle, he was totally unconscious. Limp, yeah? Like a doll. And just sopping wet from that freak rainstorm.”

A cold little shiver ran down Severus’ spine. Of course Ron didn’t know what had happened out by Hagrid’s cabin. He’d been inside trying not to die like the rest of his friends, and if the likelihood of Harry remembering what he’d done was low, the likelihood of him speaking of it was zero, and Severus had certainly not told Rita Skeeter about the rain. 

He sat very still. 

“Took him a while to wake up again,” Ron continued. “And we were all really scared. Kinda clustered around the bed. Hermione, and Gin, and me, and McGonagall, and Lupin, and Madam Pomfrey. No one knew what to do. Dumbledore was dead, and you were gone, and Harry was like that. So we thought... Lupin was Harry’s favorite. I mean before, you know? Taught him how to cast a Patronus, and all, so we figured he could sit at the bedside, for when Harry woke up. I shouldn’t have let it happen, but I was a bit busy with my brother… and it didn’t occur to me that… he’d…” He trailed off and scratched his head. “When Harry came to and saw who was sitting with him, he just hit the ceiling. Screamed for Lupin to get away from him, not to touch him, and asked for you, and just… Merlin, that screaming. I never wanted to hear a sound like that ever again. Even Ginny pulled her wand. Only time  _ she’s _ ever had a teacher at wandpoint as far as I know.” He stopped, and looked appraisingly at Severus, who, suddenly concerned that his expression was betraying him, schooled his features into neutrality. But it was a bad job, or at the very least, too late. “Look,” Ron said. “When Lupin came here after the Ministry fell, I didn’t expect him to dare lay hands on Harry. If I had, I wouldn’t have let him in the house. Woulda cursed him in the street, yeah? Cuz that foul shit he spouted? Fine. He can be a prick if he wants. But  _ grabbing him _ like that? Shocked me.”

“I’m sure it did,” Severus said, thinking that he would have turned the man into paste, and that, no matter how much Lupin had cooled off since then, he was a terrible loose end to leave flapping out in the world. 

Lucky thing they had all the leverage. Every possible pressure point, and from every angle. Remus had nothing, really, other than a great chasm of need, and a lot of pain and rage. But Severus would prefer there to be no games. Harry did not need any more games. He would have to be told, straight out. But… later. 

“Yeah, so we threw him out, and didn’t see him for months, ‘cept for hearing him on the wireless, and then the first time we _do_ see him, he asks Harry to be his son’s bloody godfather! And Harry says _yes._ Fucking saint. And then Lupin STILL tries to kill you in the Great Hall.” Ron’s mouth twisted into a disgusted sneer. “Put his wand right in Hermione’s face. Bloke’s head’s not on straight, that’s for sure, and then when I tell him to keep his fucking prick in his fucking pants about his weird vendetta, he tells _me_ that I’m just _too_ _young_ to understand why what you’ve got with Harry is ‘wrong.’” He scoffed. “Like he can even speak on it. Like it’s so bloody upstanding and adult to be knocking Harry around, no matter how pissed off you are. _No one_ handles Harry that way. Not while I can see it.” He glared into nothing, but then the darkness cleared a little from his eyes, and he grinned. “Except for you, I guess. Eh?” 

Ron Weasley was not the most gifted conversationalist, but Severus could recognize a request for deflection when he saw one. For lightening the mood. 

“I have never handled Harry that way,” he drawled. “He doesn’t like being shaken, he likes being held down, and I restrict my violence exclusively to his preferences.” It worked. Ron spluttered and turned red, and Severus laughed. “Hoisted on your own petard. Surely you’re doing that deliberately.”

“Well, ANYWAY,” Ron said. “Harry’s  _ preferences  _ aside, I did have a point.”

“Did you? What personal growth.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I wanted to tell you something about my brother.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to narrow that down a tad.”

“Bill, alright? It’s about Bill. Jeez. You’re like talking to a brick wall sometimes.”

“Do bricks mock you? How alarming.” Ron just glared at him, and Severus sighed. “Oh, spit it out then. We’re on a bit of a schedule.”

“I’m trying! Merlin. Fine. You know Bill isn’t eating raw steaks anymore. Not since Harry… did what he did at Shell Cottage.”

“I had assumed.”

“Guess he pulled the poison right out, even though… that’s supposed to be impossible. Incurable, right? Bite from a werewolf.” Ron paused expectantly, and Severus inclined his head. “So…er. Bill and Lupin are mates. Bonded a bit over the mauled by Greyback thing, but even before that, they were pretty close. Talked, you know. Played cards, and… stuff.”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” Severus said, and when Ron rubbed at the back of his neck, decided to take pity on him. Severus had beaten him there, the poor sod, but he did deserve some credit for getting there at all. “But I doubt Remus will appear unannounced on our doorstep requesting miracles, even if Bill does suggest it to him. He does still possess, as far as I’m aware, at least a modicum of pride.”

“Just wanted to make sure you’d thought of that.” 

“I did.”

“I… don’t want Harry to be shocked,” Ron continued, his expression momentarily searching. “When Lupin showed up at my house for Christmas, it… didn’t go very well.”

That, of course, Severus was so incredibly aware of that it was always somewhere in his mind, though more recent crises had crowded it somewhat.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said evenly. “And I doubt I ever will. But I appreciate your loyalty, and your concern, and I shall endeavor to shield Harry as much as possible, as is my general guiding principle. Now, is there anything else? I’d like to be back in the house by nightfall.”

“Actually, yeah, there is one more thing,” Ron answered. “I had… a question. It’s a bit… related.”

“Be my guest,” Severus sighed. “If it’s a ‘bit’ related, I’m sure I’ve time for it.”

“Right…” Ron began. “It’s just… Harry’s been through a lot.”

“He has,” Severus said, barely withholding,  _ ‘your penchant for euphemism is giving me a migraine.’ _

“Loads more than any of us. But… he’s doing better. I mean, he is, isn’t he? He seems… so much better.”

“Oh, some days are easier than others,” Severus answered. “But yes, generally speaking, he is improving.”

“I thought so,” Ron said, nodding to the floor. “Or, I was hoping, I guess. He looks good - rested, I mean - and I don’t think he’s taking that stuff anymore.” He glanced up hopefully, and Severus shook his head, _no._ No drugs. “Right. Not for ages. So… I thought… there must be something else he’s doing. Something you taught him, or showed him, that’s helping him sleep, and I was hoping maybe you’d tell me what it is. If you… if you don’t mind.” 

Severus frowned. “Is sleep something you’re struggling with?”

“No,” Ron answered at once, but then looked away. “Or, well, a bit. I have nightmares sometimes, and things like that, but it isn’t so bad. I still wake up feeling okay most days. But, Hermione… not so much. She hardly sleeps at all, and… she thinks I haven’t noticed. But I have noticed. I just…” His ears turned red, but he pushed through with what Severus could recognize as sheer force of will. “I don’t know what to say, or how to help her, so I just sort of lie there in the dark, listening to her writing. She does this thing so only she can see the light. Suppose she doesn’t want to wake me.” He chuckled miserably, and pressed his fingers into his eyes like his head was hurting. “I’m hoping collecting her parents will do some good, but… I dunno. Seems like there’s… a lot. And Harry’s got you, but she’s just got me, and I don’t know… anything, really. I don’t know anything.” He scrunched his eyes still harder closed, and Severus tried to imagine himself at eighteen, saying a sentence like that about anyone on earth. 

Merlin, but they all cared so much for each other.

“Well, if it’s Miss Granger’s sleep that is concerning you,” he began. “I’m afraid I’m a bit ahead of you there as well. But perhaps what I told her is something the two of you can practice together.”

“Yeah?” Ron asked. His voice and expression were desperately earnest, and though Severus found his candor a little disarming, he supposed he should have expected it. They’d obviously bonded during the war or some such thing. 

Must have been the slap.

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “By some accounts, the presence of a trusted second party there, breathing beside you, is integral to success. A sense of safety is critical for sleep, and for many of us, our safety is embodied.”

“What does that mean, ‘embodied?’”

“It is a person.”

***

“All done,” Ron announced, striding back into the parlor with Severus trailing after him, and over Ron’s shoulder, Severus saw Narcissa, Draco, and Hermione all look up with varying levels of surprise and annoyance. 

“What, are Weasleys immune?” Draco demanded. “He looks _ fine.” _

“Nah, almost puked,” Ron said heartily. “Don’t recommend it at all.” He walked directly over to Hermione and bent down to kiss her hair. “Alright, luv, be back in a bit. Gotta take care of some business with  _ The Chosen One’s Chosen One.” _

She scoffed gently and rolled her eyes, but her cheeks still pinked rather prettily, and Severus wondered if Ron might not be starting to get a solid handle on the whole  _ boyfriend  _ situation. 

Certainly he loved her. __

He looked over at Harry, meaning to see if he’d noticed, but Harry was not paying any attention to his friends. Harry was looking directly at him.

“Where to?” he asked, apparently addressing Ron despite his unwavering eye contact.

“No idea,” Ron answered. “In fact, I understand that it’s a secret, and if I figure it out, or someone tells me, I’ll be obliviated. But don’t worry.” He gave Harry a little nod and put his hand over his heart. “I’ll bring your Man Friend back in one piece. On my honor.”

“Oh, what a promotion,” Severus said, and Draco muttered something under his breath, reaching out for Taz to step onto his fingers from her turret of envelopes. 

“Open another one, Harry,” he said. “If you tear off the corner she’ll wear it like a little hat.”

“In a minute,” Harry answered, and got to his feet. “I’ll just walk them out.” 

“Kreacher can open one on Master Potter’s behalf,” Kreacher croaked. “From the discard pile, if that is agreeable to Master…?” 

“Yeah that’s fine, Kreacher. Open whatever you want. I’ll be back in a second.”

“Do a decorative one,” Draco said, and then, in a conspiratorial undertone to Hermione: “She just  _ adores _ sparkles.”

“Everyone adores sparkles, darling,” Narcissa countered obnoxiously, which Severus did not acknowledge. “Or they’re  _ lying.” _

“I’m not terribly fond of sparkles,” Hermione said. “They shed.”

“Not if they’re set in platinum, my dear,” Narcissa answered, and reached into the discard pile, withdrawing one that was, indeed, shedding sparkles. “How about this one? What do you think, Taz? Glitter. Yes?” 

“See!  _ Look at her spikes.  _ She  _ loves it.” _

Following Harry out towards the entry, Severus fancied that he could feel the discomfort radiating off of Harry’s body like waves of heat. But Harry did not say anything, or send anything through the bracelet. He just led the way, and Severus and Ron followed, and at the door, Severus took his coat from the rack and pulled it on, and then turned to look at Harry standing there like he was being abandoned. 

Again. 

“Do you have your list?” he asked, and Harry nodded stiffly, his face set like he was absolutely determined not to react to whatever he was feeling. 

It was awful to see - like going back in time - and Severus reached out and cupped his cheek in one hand. 

“Keep it with you,” he said. “And we will cross one off this evening when I return. Alright?” He brushed his thumb lightly across Harry’s cheekbone, and at the touch, Harry’s controlled expression cracked like the thin veneer it was.

“Which one?” he asked, his voice suddenly and agonizingly child-like, and if Severus had been hoping that Harry wouldn’t be too angry with him for this, he wasn’t hoping that anymore. He’d take rage in a heartbeat over what he was getting now, for the Harry under his hand right at that moment was just the same one he’d left out in the snow at the Burrow, and later, the one that had looked up at him from the floor of his sitting room and said,  _ ‘I’m scared,’  _ like a little boy with no power to protect himself, or even to beg for reprieve, afraid that if he so much as blinked, the whole world might disappear. That if he looked away, even once - even for a  _ second -  _ everything would be lost.

For a single, vertiginous moment, Severus was transported back into the boy’s bathroom off of the Great Hall. To being called there to say goodbye, without knowing that was what he was doing. 

_ ‘Be safe. Promise me.’ _

As if either of them could demand, or offer, a vow like that. 

_ ‘I promise.’ _

Lie. 

A  _ lie.  _ But Severus had accepted it, and let him go, with no idea what he was consenting to in allowing it. Without the slightest inkling that he would not touch Harry again - wouldn’t hear his voice, or see him, or even  _ read his words _ \- for six months from that moment. He hadn’t known. Hadn’t thought it through. Hadn’t even kissed him properly.

_ ‘Don’t take off the bracelet.’  _

_ ‘I won’t.’ _

A weak, fluttering sort of feeling filled his belly like poisonous ether, and he wavered, abruptly overcome with the need to take his coat right back off. To hang it back on the peg where it belonged, and beg forgiveness for daring to so much as  _ conceive  _ of going anywhere without Harry ever again in his life.

But that would be… irrational. 

Categorically ridiculous, and humiliating, besides. This was not the Burrow, or the Governors, and it certainly wasn’t that night in the bathroom. It was, in a way, shopping, and Ron was coming with him, and Hermione was staying behind, and they had the bracelets, and there was little to no risk. It was only shopping, and Harry would have to get used to Severus going out shopping, wouldn’t he? That was part of normal life, going out to the shops. Going out, and coming home.

Perfectly ordinary, and perfectly harmless, and if he didn’t get himself under control Harry would feel his distress and spiral.

“Number six,” he said, forcing his crushing anxiety to heel. “Just an errand, love. That’s all.”

_ “‘Just,’”  _ Harry repeated, his expression flickering perilously between terror and misery, and Severus slid his hand around to the nape of his neck, gripping him tightly, wanting to steady him. Or, perhaps, wanting to steady himself. 

“Harry,” he said warningly. “Hogsmeade. Diagon Alley. Devon. That’s all. Use your point.” He could feel the patter of his own pulse in his fingers - unhelpfully fast - but there was nothing for it right then, and Harry obeyed him anyway, though not the way Severus might have preferred. He dug his thumbnail into his wrist. Savagely, like he wanted to tear out the tendons. 

“But - then - I could just come with you,” he said thinly. “If it's just those places, I could come. Even if it’s a surprise, or a present, or whatever, you could just tell it to me. Or… if you don’t want to… I can wait outside. Wherever you go, I can just wait outside. I won’t look if you tell me not to look. You know I won’t. I always do what you tell me, and I’m good at not looking.”

That was true, Severus knew, and he held him still tighter, squeezing the back of his neck like he was scruffing a cat. “I don’t want you to look away,” he said. “I only want you to extend your trust out into the daylight, where it belongs. And  _ that  _ is not how your point works.” He took hold of Harry’s left wrist, twisted it away, and pressed the spot himself. Firmly, but with the soft pad of his thumb. Not his  _ nail.  _ “Did I teach you to do that?” 

Harry tried to turn his face away, but Severus held him fast and looked into his eyes. The wild green was uncommonly vivid against the translucent, bluish pallor of the hollows under them. A testament, painfully clear, to how much work there still was to do. How many more nights of good sleep he still needed. That they both - that they  _ all _ \- still needed. Everyone in the house, certainly, if not everyone in the wizarding world.

He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Did I teach you to do that?” he repeated, and when Harry finally shook his head, gentled his hands, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Think of it as a trial run,” he continued. “If a single number on that list upsets you when all is said and done, I will not attempt to surprise you again. I have no interest in hurting you, or lying to you, and you know that’s the truth. Now, what is it that I do want? I told you very clearly. Do you remember?”

“You… want to give me a gift,” Harry whispered. “For my birthday. Because it's really soon, and… you’ve never given me one before.”

“And why haven’t I?”

“Because there wasn’t time.”

“That’s right,” Severus answered. “But we have time now, and I have so much to make up for, and so many plans, and they're all just as needlessly intricate as ever.”

Harry’s lips twisted like he knew he was supposed to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. But he did nod. “Ok,” he said. “But - if I try to talk to you, you’ll answer me, right? And if I call, you’ll come back? You won’t just-” he broke off, looking suddenly sick, and Severus released his wrist to take hold of his head. 

“Listen to me,” he said. “Nothing remaining in heaven or on earth could keep me from you, and certainly not the shops. Do you understand? Nothing. Everyone that ever has, or ever could, is in the ground, because I killed them for it. Yes?” Harry’s hands came up to curl around Severus’ forearms, and he nodded again, the movement stilted and short against the grip on his head. “If you speak, I will answer. If you call, I will come. On my love for you.” 

“Swear,” Harry whispered.

“I swear.”

Harry’s mouth trembled, but then set, and he took a deep breath before stepping back and offering a smile to Ron where he was standing awkwardly to one side. 

“Right, of course,” he said. “Sorry. I don’t mean to nursemaid. Just - just be careful, ok? You’re both really very famous, and in the newspaper.”

“Don’t I know it,” Ron answered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “But it’ll be fine, eh? I’ll sign autographs as you. Charge a Galleon per. You can have ten percent.”

“Yeah,” Harry answered. “Get arrested for fraud. Perfect plan.” He raked a hand through his hair, and stood up on his toes, steadying himself on Severus’ chest. “Bye, then,” he breathed, and Severus kissed him. 

“I’ve no interest in lingering anywhere but here,” he said. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Like a pair of rabbits,” Ron added, but then grimaced. “Or… uh. Thestrals.” He pulled open the door. “Anyway, um. See you in a bit!” He fled outside, leaving the door gaping, and Severus sighed and took hold of the handle before turning back to look at Harry one more time. 

“Stay out of trouble,” he said, and for his efforts, got a smile so thin it was like winter sunlight filtered through a layer of marine fog. 

“Yes, Sir,” Harry answered, and looked at his hands. “Go on.”

  
  



	23. Hero

Out on the front stoop, Ron folded his arms over his chest and gave Severus a steely look. “I thought you said he was getting better,” he accused.

“He is,” Severus answered, withholding the urge to cross his arms, too. He was getting tired of all the extra teenagers. They were regressive, and he was having a hard day. 

“Then what in Merlin’s name was all that about?” Ron demanded. “If he was so much bloody better he would have just said, _‘tootles, Severus, see you in a few hours.’”_

Severus crossed his arms. 

“Oh, _yes,”_ he sneered. _“‘Tootles.’_ I can’t imagine why Harry didn’t say _tootles_ after how smoothly everything in his life has gone up to this point. How silly of him to be _anxious._ Surely that’s a symptom of some kind rather than a learned behavior.”

 _“‘Anxious,’_ right,” Ron scoffed. “Bet that’s not an understatement at all.” He glowered. “And what fucking ‘list,’ eh?”

“The list of secrets I’m keeping,” Severus answered shortly. “Which is none of your business. Now, do you have an apparition license? I’m not even remotely in the mood to stand here bickering when I could be _getting things done.”_

“Yeah, well, likewise,” Ron shot back. “And _no._ I failed on a technicality and then went on the run, didn’t I? But I’ve only apparated eight thousand times since then, and under all sorts of horrible conditions, so don’t fucking worry about it.”

“And how many times have you splinched yourself?”

“Twice, if you don’t count my eyebrow, but I don’t need a side along, if that’s what you’re asking me.” He glanced back at the door. Glared, really, but after a moment it fell. “He’s not happy.” 

Severus looked at the door, too. “No,” he agreed. “At this moment, he isn’t.”

“I didn’t like that face he made at all.”

“Neither did I.”

“You should have just brought him along.”

“I can’t.” 

“Well, why not? Whatever you’re going to give him can’t possibly be worth that face. Not even the crown-fucking-jewels.”

Severus sighed heavily, hoping Ron was mistaken, but worried that he wasn’t. For if there was anyone on earth who knew what it meant to leave Harry behind, it was Ron Weasley, and he didn’t think Ron liked doing it again much more than he did himself. Even if this farcical outing was a tepid shadow of what had gone before. 

“All I’ll tell you,” Severus answered, “is that I, in my great wisdom and advanced age, believe it is worthy of presentation. Now, are you ready? I’d prefer _‘quick’_ not to be a lie.”

“Fine,” Ron said. “But if you end up sleeping on the floor tonight it’s not my bloody fault. Where are we going first?”

“First? _Tempus.”_ The time appeared in the air before them. Five minutes to four. “Ah, good. The bank, first. I was hoping we’d make it before they close for the day.”

“The bank?” Ron asked. “What for?”

Severus rolled his eyes. “For _money.”_

He turned on the spot and into the pinhole darkness, popped out on the white marble staircase of Gringotts, and set off towards the great doors at once. He was already halfway up the steps when Ron caught up to him.

“Oi, _wait,”_ he hissed, seizing Severus’ arm. “I can’t go in there! They saw me… you know… _rob it._ And… can’t you just… borrow some from… Harry…?” Severus looked pointedly down at Ron’s hand, and he let go. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to… grab you. That’s your handprint arm.” 

“My other arm is my arrow-wound arm,” Severus said, fastidiously straightening and rebuttoning his cuff. “And your eldest brother informed me that the Goblins _wept_ when questioned about the fee levied on Harry for that robbery, so I hardly think they’ll cast us out for attempting to make a legal withdrawal.” He gave Ron an uncharitable once-over. “Though I suppose you can wait here, if you prefer. Where it’s _safe.”_

Ron squinted at him, whirled around, and marched up to the doors. 

“Pardon ME,” he announced to the guards, who were, Severus saw, once again Goblins. “I’m here with Severus SNAPE to make a LEGAL WITHDRAWAL from his VAULT.”

***

When Harry felt composed enough to return to the parlor - which took a little while - Taz was standing on the very top of a truly ridiculous tower of letters, wearing a sailor hat and shedding magical glitter, and Hermione was cackling with her hands over her face. And calm though Harry might have been, he was not at all in the mood for anything like _that._ Really, he just wanted to lie down. 

In a ditch.

“What?” he asked, knowing it was probably something daft, and would annoy him. But that was fine, because he wanted to be annoyed. That would be better than being _scared,_ anyway. Being scared would be absurd. Absurd, and embarrassing, and stupid, and he wasn’t scared. It was the Three Broomsticks, not the bloody moon. “What’s funny?” 

Hermione just giggled harder and pointed to Taz, who reared up, looking this way and that though her entire head was covered, and Harry hurled himself into the free corner of the sofa and wedged himself into the cushions. 

“Cool,” he muttered, and Kreacher leapt to his feet like he’d been stuck with a pin.

“Master Potter!” he gasped. “Kreacher is remiss to mess about. Would Master Potter like a refreshment? Tea, or a cold drink? Wine?” He twisted his hands together. “Champagne? Or… a spritzer? Kreacher has mixers. Seven mixers!”

“Ooh,” Draco said. 

“No, eight!” Kreacher continued. “So sorry, Master. Kreacher is so silly. Terrible. Terrible House-Elf. Just terr-” He bowed low, but then his eyes registered the glitter and bits of paper littering the floor and snapped wide open. “-RRIBLE. Kreacher will TIDY-”

“No, Kreacher,” Harry sighed, hugging his knees in tight against his chest and resting his chin on them. “It’s ok. You’re fine. Just leave it for now.” 

“Yes, we’ll vanish the mess later,” Hermione added, giving Kreacher a warm smile. “No reason to do it now when we’re having such a good time together.”

“But, then… Kreacher can… make hors d'oeuvres?” Kreacher offered tremulously, glancing between them and clutching his own arms like he wanted nothing more than to violate Harry’s _no punishing_ order. “Or cocktails? Kreacher knows all the classics… Kreacher learns from his mother when Kreacher is a young elf.” He shifted from foot to foot, almost dancing in agitation. “The Honorable House of Black is well stocked, and Kreacher knows Gimlet, Dubonnet, Pimm’s, White Lady, Bramble, Whisky Sour, Martini…?”

 _“My_ mother makes a fabulous Martini, too,” Draco said, leaning back on his hands on the floor while Taz finally succeeded in knocking the triangle of paper off her head with her tail and raised her wings in triumph. “Do you drink Martinis, Granger?” 

_“Martinis?”_ Hermione asked. “Not at four in the afternoon, I don’t. Or… ever, really.” She made a face. _“Martinis.”_

“Yes, well, they’re quite awful,” Narcissa agreed. “But warranted, in special moments of notable awfulness.” She reached out and gave Harry a little pat on the arm. “Not for the faint of heart, Martinis. An acquired taste.”

“Oh, I suppose you’re right,” Draco sighed. “It is a bit early for vermouth. How about something a little lighter? Do you have any mint, Kreacher? Fresh, though. Dried won’t do at all.” 

“Kreacher… does not have fresh mint, no,” Kreacher answered, his posture stiffening at this appalling oversight of household management. “Kreacher has mint _tea,_ and dried. For fresh, Kreacher has coriander, thyme, rosemary, garlic, chives, and-”

“Make some mint, will you, Potter?” Draco interrupted him. “Just a few sprigs. Imagine… I don’t know. What does mint mean?” he looked at his mother.

“Oh… I think… virtue?” She tapped one finger against her mouth. “Or is that lemon balm? Hm. Ask Severus, will you, Mr. Potter?”

“I can just think of _mint,”_ Harry muttered, and snapped his fingers, producing a small, fragrant bunch. “Who am I giving this too?”

“To me, thank you,” Narcissa answered, and took it from his hand. “What am I making, darling? Mojitos?”

“Blackberry ones,” Draco answered, and looked to the elf. “If you have blackberries.” 

“Kreacher does!” Kreacher exclaimed. “Kreacher has blackberries, blueberries, strawberries, and elderberries!” He clasped his gnarled hands together. “For Master Potter’s pancakes. Kreacher sends… to the market. For fruit.” He fidgeted. “Seven Galleons, ten Sickles, and three Knuts. With receipts.”

“Well, how terribly frugal,” Narcissa said, and stood up. “Do show me the bar, will you, Kreacher? I’ll need a muddler, too.” She looked down at Harry, crammed into the upholstery. “Care to assist? I might need additional specialty ingredients. For garnish, you know. Mojitos must be made individually, and the garnish is half the charm.”

“Sugarcane garnish please,” Draco said. “Like in Mallorca. Remember, mother?” 

“Oh, yes, delightful,” Narcissa answered. “But I’ll need Mr. Potter for that, certainly, if I’m not going to floo the specialty grocer and spend more of his money.” She laughed charmingly, and Harry glared at his own legs. 

He could just walk away. Just get up, go upstairs, and sulk in his room. Take a bath, or wrap himself in a cloak and go into his magic, or even just leave the house entirely. Just _leave,_ like Severus. Go to a fucking bar and see if anyone screamed.

He could. 

He could do anything he wanted, really. 

Anything at all.

“Yeah, alright,” he said, and un-wedged himself from the sofa. “I don’t have any idea what a ‘Mojito’ is, though.”

“No matter,” Narcissa answered airily. “There’s a first time for everything, and I’ll be making them, not you. Come. To the kitchen.” She swept out of the parlor, her new, navy-blue robes swirling gracefully around her ankles, and Kreacher bowed again, waiting for Harry to take the lead.

_“Are_ Mojitos easier to drink?” Hermione asked into the lull of their departure. “I’m not much for hard alcohol. It upsets my stomach.”

“Oh, _much_ easier,” Draco answered, watching Taz dive into a mess of shreds and glitter and sprawl onto her back. “It’s a summertime drink. Very cooling.” He sifted a torn envelope flap out of the morass and dangled it over Taz’ head, and she swiped at it with her back feet like she was hoping to disembowel it. “And with the added fruit you can hardly taste the rum at all.” He paused. “Oh, I wonder if Kreacher has rum. I’ve only asked for gin before now.” He looked around like he might get up to go after them, but then shrugged. “Ah, well. I suppose Harry can just make some if there’s none in the cellar. No _Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration_ in this house.” 

“No, there certainty isn’t,” Hermione answered with a sigh. “He made an apple for me in the Great Hall like it was nothing.”

“It probably was nothing,” Draco said. “He made _her,_ didn’t he?” He nodded at Taz just as she twisted onto her belly, reared up, seized the scrap, and started shaking it violently from side to side. 

“Goodness,” Hermione laughed. “Like she’s trying to kill a snake.”

“She’s just excited. So much paper. Like a first year in Zonkos.” He took another envelope from the discard pile and held it out for Taz to see before sliding his finger under the flap and very slowly starting to tear. Taz immediately frothed with spines and stood up on her toes. “So… ” Draco began carefully, keeping the prize just out of her reach. “Harry says you’re staying with the Weasleys.”

“I am, yes.” 

“How is it?”

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. “Well, it’s not a Manor House,” she said.

“I didn’t mean the house,” Draco answered, a little stung. “I just meant… I don’t know. If you like it, I suppose. If it’s… If it’s… nice. Not the house! I mean being there. It seems like it would be… I don’t know. Loud.” 

“It is a bit loud,” Hermione conceded, but then frowned thoughtfully. “But it’s nice, too. It’s a wonderful family - it really is - just… large. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so I’m not terribly used to it, and...” She tucked her legs underneath herself. “It can be quite a lot. You’re never alone, and certainly I’ve never been loved from so many angles before.” 

There was a silence, and then Draco burst out laughing, and she flushed. 

“I meant - _psychological angles!_ My _goodness._ Give me that.” She snatched the envelope from Draco’s hands, took out the letter, and handed the empty to Taz. “Here, Taz. Merlin.”

***

“Go on, then,” Narcissa said as Harry followed her down towards the kitchen. “We both know he’s waiting for you to use that incredibly convenient bracelet of yours. No need to be coy.” 

Harry glared at the posh seam down the center of her back, and did not answer. He’d had a feeling she would try to insert herself, and now she had, and what did Narcissa-bloody-Malfoy know about any of it, anyway? Nothing, that was what. And that was what he said, too. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. 

If Severus was ‘waiting’ for him, he could just say so. He had an _incredibly convenient_ bracelet too. 

Narcissa looked back at him with her eyebrow arched. 

“Now, now, Mr. Potter, don’t take offense,” she continued. “But I’ve known Severus for a mite longer than you have, and in a variety of different contexts, and let me tell you-” She tossed her glossy hair over one shoulder. “I would put a thousand Galleons on his waiting for the opportunity to reassure you right at this moment, and whatever he’s up to, it’s for you. So please, have mercy on the poor man and ask for what you want so he can give it to you before he self-immolates.” Harry just scoffed at that, and though Narcissa did not look around again, she did continue to speak. “Unless you want to punish him, of course. In which case maintain your icy silence for as long as you’re able, and imagine him squirming like an earthworm on a baking sidewalk, as he no doubt currently is.”

‘Icy silence’ hit Harry in the face like a slap, suddenly and uncomfortably reminding him of doing that _exact thing_ while staring out at the white caps from the cliffs at Shell Cottage. Sitting there with a bottle, vindictively imagining Severus’ distress, and doing nothing to ease it, though he so easily could have.

A tingle of shame prickled down his back, and he looked at his cuff, glinting on his wrist, and at the red scrape above it where he’d pulled too hard against his restraints, and the pink little half-moon where he’d dug in his nail. 

Severus probably _was_ waiting for him to say something. Expecting it, anticipating it… worrying that he wouldn’t. That Harry was angry and fuming, or sinking into despair. Maybe even worrying that he’d take the bracelet off in another fit of petty pique, or that he was working himself up into a panic attack, and would withdraw into the void, or else explode.

And that was… not very fair. It was _mean,_ really, and he didn’t want to be mean. He didn’t want to punish anyone, least of all Severus, and between the two of them, silence was punishment. Which he knew perfectly well, because he’d used it that way before. He’d made Severus grovel, and scrape, and beg - which he hadn’t even liked at the time - and he’d let Severus think he was hurt when he was fine, and he’d done it on purpose, and that was mean. 

He brought one finger to the silver.

 _Severus?_ he thought before he could second guess himself, and an answer appeared almost instantaneously, like Narcissa was right on the nose and Severus had been staring at it. 

_[Yes, love?]_

He inhaled sharply, a fresh little tremor pulling at his mouth, but he managed to control it. He was not going to cry in front of Draco’s mum. No way in hell. But it was a little easier to hold inside when Severus wasn’t touching him, which he supposed he should be grateful for.

The only problem now was that he couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t pathetic.

 _…hey,_ he thought with an immediate cringe of embarrassment, but Severus reacted as if that was quite a normal thing to say to someone who’d _just left,_ which Harry found so unspeakably charitable that he almost just burst into tears anyway. 

_[Well, hello to you, too]_ That was all, and there was a long lull as Harry focused on his breathing before _[Are you alright?]_ followed. 

_Yeah,_ Harry sent back at once. _I’m fine. I’m just a bit… agitated, I guess. I dunno._ He took his finger away before the thought, _‘I feel like a fucking idiot,’_ or, _‘please just come back,’_ could sneak through and betray him. 

_[Angry?]_ Severus asked, and Harry sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island and touched the back of his neck, feeling the phantom press of Severus’ fingers there. Yes? No?

 _Maybe,_ he thought, watching Narcissa’s new shoes start clicking back and forth over the parquet floor. _A little._

 _[Nervous]_ Severus offered. 

Harry chewed on his bottom lip. ‘Nervous’ was pretty charitable, too, and it occurred to him that Severus was being very patient. 

_...yeah,_ he thought. _Nervous._

 _[Well, that is certainly justified]_ Severus answered. _[But there’s no need. All is well so far, and your Weasley is body-guarding me. He’s very intimidating]_ a pause. _[Oh, he’s just given me two fingers. I quiver in terror and mortal offense]_

That startled a laugh out of Harry despite himself. _Ha. Tell him punching is only for emergencies,_ he thought, and at a clatter of bottles, looked up to see Kreacher elbow deep in a cabinet.

“Is dark acceptable to Mistress?” the elf croaked.

“Goodness, no,” Narcissa answered, picking individual leaves of mint off of his cutting. “Dark rum is a crime against humanity.”

“Mistress Black enjoyed dark rum in her coffee. Cinnamon, cream, dark rum. Fortifying.”

“Lord, no wonder she was always so shrill.”

_[He says he’s slightly more frugal with his fisticuffs these days]_ appeared with a new rush of warmth. _[And… he says he did not use the word ‘fisticuffs,’ and would like me to remind you that he did not punch Horace, you did]_

Harry grinned, imagining Ron looking over Severus’ shoulder and badgering him about what he was saying, and then, in imagining, was not able to withhold the question: _Where are you two? I mean-_ He pulled his finger away, annoyed with himself. What was he, a toddler? How hard was it to just let Severus do what he was doing? _Sorry,_ he continued quickly. _I know you said it was a secret. Sorry._

 _[Actually, this one is not a secret]_ appeared without reprimand. _[This is stop one of four, and is not on the list. We are at the bank]_

_Gringotts?_

_[The very same. I thought it might be useful to set up access to my vault from the house as well, if that’s possible, though I haven’t ever attempted to link an account to a personal safe before. Never had the need]_

The pinch of anxiety in Harry’s chest tightened into a fist as he fought the urge to demand more information. Access to his vault? Jesus, he wanted to ask why. Why did he need money when Harry had plenty, and why now, and why did he take _Ron,_ and _why why why why why why._

He hovered his fingers over the cuff, on the very razor’s edge of insisting he be told absolutely everything, and fuck Severus’ plans and Severus’ weird need for secrecy. 

He almost did it. But then… he hesitated. 

Severus had asked for his trust, and Severus never asked for anything, really. Severus just gave. To him, and to everyone else, and even when he was being Sir, the things he demanded were really just gifts, weren’t they? For Harry.

Tracing the marks on his wrists, he tried to imagine Severus taking something from him that he wasn’t desperate to give, and couldn’t, and then reached down to touch the folded parchment in his pocket. 

Six secrets weren't so many. Not in context. Harry himself had kept way more secrets than that, even from people he loved and trusted with his life. And tonight when they came back it would be only five, and God help him, if he couldn’t offer that much to Severus, he didn’t deserve to keep him.

He took a deep breath. 

_Ok,_ he finally thought. _I hope the Goblins are cooperative._

 _[So far they’re practically subservient]_ Severus answered. _[We’re in a private conference room waiting for a bank officer. But I meant to ask before I left. Is there anything I can bring back for you? Anything you’d like, or are missing at home]_

 _No,_ Harry answered, with another uncomfortable shiver of emotion. _I don’t need anything._

_[Firstly, I was asking about ‘wants’ not ‘needs,’ and secondly, I am getting the impression that is a despicable lie, though I’ll admit that tone does not translate well through the bracelets]_

Harry rubbed the burn out of his eyes, listening to Narcissa holding forth about syrup. Something about temperature, and texture, and ‘graininess,’ and ‘dumping it down the sink.’ 

_How do you do that?_ he thought.

_[Do what?]_

_You see right through me even when you can’t see me._

_[Well, I suppose I learned from the best]_

_Why does this feel so bad?_

_[We are cracking the scar tissue, that’s all. But this will be the hardest time]_

_Is it hard for you?_

_[Unbearably. Ah, our customer service agent has arrived]_

_Ok,_ Harry thought. _Just bring yourself back and I’ll be happy._

_[I love you]_

_I love you,_ Harry answered, and then, in his own slightly less expert attempt to lighten the mood: _Secret number six better be good, though._

_[Oh, well, I hope it will be, but I’m still gathering data]_

_About what?_

_[About you, of course]_

Harry frowned. _But… you already know everything about me._

_[Not in a thousand years, my beloved, though I certainly do try]_

The bracelet went dark.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Narcissa asked, dumping a truly notable amount of rum into one of the glasses. “Now, would you like a double, or a single?”

“Uh…” Harry began, watching her tip up the bottle, gracefully rotating it so it didn’t drip. “What’s that one?” 

“A single.”

“Then, I… suppose I’ll have a double.”

“There’s a good lad.” She gave him a glittering smile, and then turned it on Kreacher, who started. “Do you have chipped ice, Kreacher? No? My goodness, what is this, the sixth century? No, no, cubed will not do at all. Cubed! No. Mark my words, Mr. Potter, when I recover my fortune, there will be no more of this squalor for you. No more.”

“I have plenty of money, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry answered. “And this isn’t really… squalor. It’s pretty nice.”

“Oh, don’t be obtuse,” she answered tartly. “I know you have money, but it’s not about the numbers, is it? It’s all about knowing how to _spend._ Isn’t that right, Kreacher? _Taste.”_

***

Ron needn’t have worried. As a private conference room implied, the business at Gringotts was a butter-smooth combination of fear, awe, and an apparently managerial decision to treat anyone even tangentially Harry-Potter-related as a favored client, and they were offered coffee, tea, prosecco (which they declined), and petit-fours (which Ron inhaled), and were in and out in relatively short order with a Vault-Link application, as well as a large sack of Galleons and Sickles, and quite a lot of Ron Weasley poking fun at Severus for being poor. 

Which he was not.

“Yeah, you are,” Ron said, trotting after him out through the great bronze doors. “Have you _been_ in Harry’s vault? We’re all poor!”

“And when might I have had occasion to be inside Harry’s vault?”

“I dunno. You live together. But that’s not the point, is it? Whole thing’s gold a kilometer deep.”

“I saw the statements, yes. James was from old money.” They passed the outer limit of the Gringotts anti-apparition wards, and Severus seized the front of Ron’s jumper. “Hurry up, now. We’re behind.” He twisted into the air. 

“Fuck ME-” Ron gasped, staggering sideways as they popped out on another street. “That was polite!”

“You were babbling. Do try to keep up.” Severus swept away towards the Three Broomsticks, and Ron followed after him, muttering crossly under his breath, which Severus ignored. He really was in a hurry, and their last stop would take a while, he was sure. Glancing at the height of the sun, he took a sharp turn towards the narrow alley between the pub and its neighbors, where there was a rickety staircase leading up into Madam Rosmerta’s flat.

Up on the landing, which was even more derelict than the stairs and creaked rather ominously under his feet, Severus rapped gently, and then gave a small bow. “Good afternoon, Rosmerta,” he said. “You look well.”

“Good afternoon, Severus,” she answered. “And… ? Is that Ron Weasley you have with you?”

“Yeah,” Ron answered breathlessly, giving her a small wave as he caught up. “Hullo. I mean-” He blushed, and then bowed, too. “Good afternoon.” Rosmerta chuckled.

“My, you’ve gotten tall,” she said, and held open the door. “Do come in. My new hire is minding the bar until we’re through. Please.”

“Thank you,” Severus answered. “This shouldn’t take long.” He stepped over the threshold, and when Rosmerta moved away, hissed under his breath: _“You look like a bantam rooster. Stop preening.”_

“I’m not _preening,”_ Ron sniped back. “I _did_ get taller. Almost as tall as you, now.” He stood up even straighter, eying Severus cornerwise. “Yeah. Close.”

_“Well, what an accomplishment converting calories to bone mass.”_

“Can I get you two gentleman a drink?” Rosmerta called from her kitchen. “Mead, or pumpkin juice? Gillywater?”

Severus held up a forestalling hand before Ron could answer.

“No, thank you,” he called back, and sat himself in one of her well-worn armchairs. “I’m loath to intrude on your hospitality any longer than is necessary. Have you eaten recently?”

“No,” Rosmerta answered, returning with a single pumpkin juice and bowl of nuts, both of which she set on the coffee table in front of Ron, who turned beet-red and stuttered a thank you. “Not since this morning, as you advised.”

“Excellent,” Severus said. “Now, if you would have a seat, please, we can begin.” She sat. “Draco Malfoy appeared at your door shortly after the explosion in the Shrieking Shack, is that correct? Very good. I’ve already extracted his memory of that event, but it was incomplete. I’m hoping you can provide supplementation.”

“I’m not surprised it was incomplete,” Rosmerta answered. “He was a mess. Bled all over my carpeting. I’m shocked that he remembered enough for you to know to contact me at all, really.”

“He remembers light in a window on a dark street,” Severus said. “I recognized it as your pub, and though he does not recall what happened here in their specifics, he did tell me that you healed him, though he was concerned you’d turn him away.”

Rosmerta studied her manicured nails. Clean, squared french tips, with baby-pink beds. They looked freshly done. “I thought he was going to die,” she said. “What was I supposed to do? Leave him? A child like that.” She scoffed, and her expression tightened. “I’m not that sort of person. I’d think you might know that.”

“He kept you under the Imperius curse for nearly a year,” Severus offered. “You would have been well within your rights to cast him out of your home after that.” 

Rosmerta looked back up at him, her eyes fierce. _“‘Anyone harboring the traitors Severus Snape or Draco Malfoy will die along with their families,’”_ she quoted, raising the hairs on Severus’ arms. _“‘Bring them to me and you shall be spared.’”_ She crossed her ankles. “What was I supposed to do?”

Severus inclined his head. “Just as you have done,” he said. “You saved a life, and now you may save it a second time. Let’s begin with the explosion.”

***

“You made a face,” Ron said as they descended the stairs, Severus’ pockets jingling with a trio of freshly miniaturized bottles. “What did you see?”

“A _‘face?’”_ Severus asked. “Whatever can you mean by that?”

_‘Marian, Rosmerta: Draco Malfoy gravely wounded, appears on doorstep. Dark Lord announces betrayal, calls for execution of traitors.’_

“One of Rosmerta’s memories. You made a face when you saw it, like it was horrible. Never seen you make a face like that before. What did you see?”

Severus did not stop walking. “Draco was injured,” he said. “Badly, as Rosmerta said.”

“Yeah? He said he broke his arm. That she healed it, but then he hurt it again during the battle.”

“It was rather worse than a broken arm.” 

_‘Marian, Rosmerta: Draco Malfoy, compound fracture, bleeding copiously from scalp and (???) body. Begs for aid in seeking reinforcements. Loses consciousness.’_

“What, then?”

“A total dislocation at the shoulder,” Severus answered. “Multiple fractures. His arm was dangling, and his radius was protruding through his forearm.”

 _“Protruding?”_ Ron asked. “Like _sticking out?”_

“Yes.”

“Jeez. Ick.”

“Indeed.”

_‘Marian, Rosmerta: Removal of embedded glass, force-feeding of potions to Draco Malfoy, concussed. Floos to allies.’_

Severus Snape had seen a lot of things in his life. A lot of violence, and gore, and tragedy, and awful cruelty. But that dagger of glass being torn out from beneath Draco’s shoulder blade had been a new one. Not something the Draco Malfoy he’d known in school would have kept to himself. And all that _blood._ Enough to puddle in the hollow of his collarbones, and glue his shirt to his back, and patter in thick droplets onto Rosmerta’s kitchen floor. It seemed far-fetched at best that he could have walked more than a few steps in that condition, but he must have. Not that there was any way to find out. Draco couldn’t remember it, and as far as Severus was aware, no one else had seen him staggering over the cobblestones.

Draco himself might not even know what he’d done. What he’d accomplished, and under what impossible odds. He might not even know. 

“Hey, slow down! Where are we going?”

“Sweet shop.”

“Oh.” Ron was jogging to keep up with him, now. “If it’s the sweet shop, can you spot me a few sickles? Hermione loves wine gums and we haven’t been for ages.”

Severus looked over at him, unable to summon anything prickly _or_ funny. Really, he was just grateful for the change in subject. Hermione liked wine gums, did she? Wonderful. What a non-traumatic thing to focus on. A trip to Honeydukes with Ron Weasley, instead of Draco’s splintered bones, crusted with dirt and debris, poking out of the scorched school uniform he’d been wearing when Rowle dragged him into the forest to rape. 

God.

A night worth a thousand years.

“Fine,” he said. “Just be quick about it.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discord Server: https://discord.gg/YHRtbMTBep
> 
> AUDIOBOOK LINK: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897103/chapters/68312206


	24. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my beloved readers,
> 
> PSA that I am going on a little trip, and will have <<>> around me, and will likely be unable to obsessively write pacify the whole time, so my next chapter will probably be delayed a few days or up to a week. 
> 
> p.s. I know I haven't been answering anyones comments :< I am reading every single one and love them all and am going to try to catch up so please don't stop leaving them lol 
> 
> All my love, and pray for me
> 
> -C

“You know, this is actually very good,” Hermione said, taking another little sip of her Mojito. “I expected it to taste like cleaning solution.”

“‘Cleaning solution?’” Draco asked. “What is that, a potion?”

“Of a kind,” Hermione answered. “It’s a concentrate that you dilute with water to sanitize… oh, never mind. Thank you, Kreacher.”

Kreacher bowed. “Mistress Malfoy teaches Kreacher a new recipe. Kreacher is so pleased it meets with Mistress Granger’s approval.” He glanced at Harry, and bowed again. “Master Potter summoned the… stick.”

“It’s not a stick, it’s _sugarcane,”_ Draco corrected.

“Quite expensive to import as fresh as this,” Narcissa added, stirring with her own. “If you aren’t a boy-god of some kind, of course. Excellent angles on the cut, too. Just perfect.”

“Thanks,” Harry muttered, settling himself back on the sofa and taking a generous swallow of his own drink, which he thought rather did taste like cleaning solution. But good. Strong. “That’s what I’m for. Making mint and sugar sticks.”

“And paper dragons,” Draco said, tickling the tip of one of Taz’ wings. “And… incredibly rude flowers.”

“Clothes, too,” Narcissa added. “That black velvet piece is one of my prized possessions, now. And, of course, we can’t forget the _scandals._ That might be your greatest talent, Mr. Potter. Frothing up the press.”

“Oh, yes, mustn’t overlook that.” Draco raised his glass. “You’re just a fountain of outrageous scandals breathing life into the doldrums of my mother’s dull, pointless days. What a gift, all that _salacious gossip._ She’d have nothing to do, otherwise. She’d wither away.” 

Narcissa smacked him, and Harry scoffed.

“Pff. Not my fault people care so much about my private business,” he said, stabbing at a crushed blackberry with his sugarcane. “Tabloids, and the Ministry, and the _Governors,_ and all these _letters…_ And here I am just trying to mind my own goddamn business.”

“But you’re so _interesting,”_ Narcissa countered. “How often is there a deity in the society pages?”

“I’m not a DEITY. And I’m not in the _society pages.”_

“Oh, do pardon me, I meant on the cover.”

“Would you like a Mojito, Kreacher?” Hermione interjected, smiling indulgently down at the tiny, wizened elf, who was eyeing the mess on the floor with his hands behind his back. “They really are quite nice, and as you helped to mix, it’s only fair.” 

“Can House-Elves drink?” Draco asked.

“Winky drinks,” Harry answered. “After she was freed, she was always getting blitzed on butterbeer. Didn’t even know that was possible, but I don’t think we saw her sober a single time. Although… I did get the impression that was… somewhat… frowned upon.” He glanced at Hermione, who grimaced. “By the other elves, at least. Seemed pretty justified to me.”

“House-Elves _can_ but are not _permitted,”_ Kreacher croaked. “Kreacher is not speaking on Winky’s behalf, but Kreacher is not drinking in Master’s house. Not for a respectable elf to partake.” He glanced at the glass in Harry’s hand, and then away again. “Not Kreacher. No.”

“Seems like you kind of want to, though,” Harry said slyly, and waved, summoning a miniature duplicate of his own cocktail, just the right size for an elf’s hand. “And I’m your master, so if I give you permission, it’s fine.” He added a bit of extra soda water from his fingertip, and then held it out, ice-cold and beaded with jewel-bright water droplets. “Permission granted.” 

Kreacher looked askance at it. “Kreacher cannot,” he said slowly, and swallowed. “Kreacher… is working.”

“House-Elves are always working,” Draco drawled. “Plus, you stuck a Deatheater in the eye socket with a kitchen knife. I saw it. Have a drink. The war’s over, and the bigots lost.”

“Yes, we certainly did,” Narcissa agreed. “When in Rome, Kreacher. It’s a brave new world, and we are all in over our heads. Just look at me! On house-arrest… mixing drinks… borrowing money from a seventeen-year-old to buy clothes.” She laughed delicately and took a sip. “Humiliating.”

“In the _eye socket?”_ Hermione asked. “Did you really, Kreacher?”

“Kreacher… did,” Kreacher answered slowly. “In the mask-hole. He screamed.” 

“Bet he did scream,” Draco chuckled, and then glared into his cup. “Hope it was someone awful.”

Kreacher looked at Draco, and then Narcissa, and then back at the drink in Harry’s hand. “Kreacher cannot…” he repeated uncertainly. “Kreacher is making dinner soon.”

“Kreacher _can,”_ Harry said. “If Kreacher wants to. And I know how to cook, too. Some things, anyway.” 

“I do not,” Draco announced. “Not even boiled eggs. But damn if I can’t make forty different graduate-level potions.” He tipped his glass towards Hermione. “Eh?”

“I can _cook,”_ she answered. 

“See?” Harry said, still holding out the little glass with its miniature mint and ice and blackberries, and its tiny sugarcane garnish. “We’ll cook later. Have a drink with me, now.”

Kreacher fidgeted with his toga. “If… Master Potter is to _order_ Kreacher…” he said hopefully. “Kreacher must obey orders from his master, even if they are…” he dropped his voice. _“Uncommon.”_

“Alright,” Harry said. “I order you, then.” He twitched the tiny glass, and when Kreacher finally took it, held up his own in a small salute. “Good work sticking that Deatheater in the eye.”

Kreacher half-bowed, touching the little lump of the locket he wore under his tea towel. “... Kreacher is not deserving such praise,” he said. “But… if Master Potter allows it… perhaps Kreacher might toast to Master Regulus…?” 

“To Master Regulus,” Harry agreed, and clinked his glass to Kreacher’s, before raising it towards the Malfoys. “And to all the other traitors who helped turn the tide.”

“To the traitors,” Hermione echoed, and they drank, all save Draco, who’d stopped with his own toast half-way to his lips. 

“... Regulus Black was a traitor?” he asked, and looked to his mother, but it was Hermione who answered him.

“Oh, my, yes!” she gasped. “The story is incredible. I could hardly believe it. He was so brave, and just our age. Barely eighteen! But he acted completely independently, and _no one knew._ Not his family, not the Dark Lord, not even his own mother! He only trusted Kreacher-” She stopped abruptly, and raised one hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kreacher. Do you mind if I tell it? I know it was… a terrible thing.”

“Kreacher does not mind,” Kreacher answered, and when Master Potter patted the spot beside him on the sofa, climbed up to sit beside him. The springiness of the cushions was a small surprise, as he’d never sat on one before - only cleaned them - and he very nearly spilled. But he managed to stay neat, and arranged himself cross-legged where his master had indicated, smoothing his toga over his knobbly knees. “Kreacher is… honored.”

***

“So…” Ron drawled as they watched the clerk nervously wrapping up their purchases. “This is what you made Harry so upset for? Sweets?” 

“No,” Severus answered shortly, as the boy behind the counter narrowly avoided stabbing himself in the hand with his own scissors. 

“Right,” Ron said, rolling his eyes and popping one of the sample chocolates into his mouth. “‘Course not. Only an idiot would do that. Nice paper, though. Very Harry-y.” 

Honeydukes did not carry suitable wrapping in Severus’ opinion, so he’d transfigured some of their ghastly striped birthday print into a satiny black, and then, after a moment’s consideration, added a scattering of delicate silver and gold stars. 

For the dragon.

Harry really liked that dragon.

“Oh?” Severus asked snidely. “Likes black, does he?”

“Yeah… I guess,” Ron answered, giving him a onceover in kind. “I guess he likes _black._ Green and silver too, probably. Bloody turncoat.” 

“Well, what luck. I’m competing with _Ginevra Weasley’s_ eye for color, so this fresh information is coming at the perfect time.” 

Ron laughed out loud. “Oh, Merlin, I’m gonna tell her that,” he said, and rested his elbow on the counter. “She’ll love it.” 

Severus made a noncommittal noise. He was not particularly interested in pleasing the Weasley daughter, though he had rather admired her flair for insult. He’d just given himself an idea, and so took a moment to turn it over in his mind. To locate its source, and examine it, before acting on it, lest he make an error. It was, after all, not even remotely the avenue he’d decided to take. But he had new information now, and previously unknown corners of the past had been illuminated. People he’d thought he knew, brought into the light.

He did not think it was a mistake, but even if it was, it certainly wasn’t a mortal one. 

“What sort of sweets does your brother like?” he asked.

“Which brother?” Ron asked back, and when Severus just arched an eyebrow, took a guess. “What, Charlie? He likes Salmiak. It’s disgusting.” He pulled a face. “Tastes like salty ink. Antisocial, in my opinion. Bloody nutcase, eating that stuff.”

Severus returned his attention to the clerk. “Do you carry Salmiak?” he asked, holding out a length of silky black ribbon.

“S-salmiak?” the boy stuttered, taking the offered finishing touch with fingers so white and clumsy that Severus rather doubted he’d be able to tie a knot, let alone a bow. “Um, yes. We. Uh. It’s an unusual - er. That is to say, niche - uh. _Accio Salmiak.”_ A handsome green velvet satchel tied with braided twine flew from the back of the store and whizzed to the shopkeep’s hand. He seemed elated that he’d managed to catch it. “Wrapping preference for this one, Mister - um… Sir?”

“It’s fine how it is,” Severus answered, and Ron eyed the little bag, and then Severus himself. 

“Well, that’s sporting of you,” he said. 

“I melt in pleasure at your flattery.”

Ron scoffed and turned back towards the clerk. “Have anything with creatures on for the wine gums?” he asked the boy. “Bowtruckles, or firecrabs, or something? Nifflers?”

“Er… I have… mermaid print?” the boy answered uncertainly. 

“No, that’s no good,” Ron said. “She hates those fake, humanized merpeople. Says its _erasure._ What else have you got? Pixies? Dragons?”

“H-hippogriffs? I have - hippogriffs wearing… bells. On their feet. It’s sort of Christmas print, but only because of the bells. Silver bells, you know. Bit Christmassy-” 

“Yeah, alright,” Ron answered, taking another pair of truffles from the little platter. “That’s fine. Red bow. Thanks mate.” He turned around and leaned back against the edge of the counter. “Really, though. If it’s not the sweets, what’s the deal? He could have come for all of this.” He stuffed both chocolates into his mouth.

“He could have,” Severus answered. “But our final destination is the Jordan household, and he cannot come for that.”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “Jordan?” he repeated. “Which Jordan? Lee?”

“The very same. And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“What’s _Lee Jordan_ got to do with anything?” Ron demanded, but before Severus could deflect, a young lady did it for him, cautiously approaching from behind a display of sugar quills.

“Pardon me,” she said shyly, hugging her own arms while her friend trembled in silent giggles behind her. “Just… are you Ron Weasley?”

Ron swallowed his chocolate all in a lump. “Why, YES I AM,” he said.

Severus rubbed his temple. It was the third one in the mere minutes they’d been in the shop, as Honeydukes was apparently where all of Ron Weasley’s admirers congregated, which really shouldn’t have surprised him. If he went to a bookshop with Hermione they’d probably be mobbed as well, though that, at least, would be more his speed. Easier to hide in a bookshop, anyway. Taller displays, though he supposed he should be pleased that no one yet had the stones to approach him directly.

“What’s the total?” he asked the clerk. 

“Oh, it’s uh - on the house, Sir,” the boy squeaked, and then coughed a little, dropping his voice to a lower, more mature register that did not even remotely match his terrified demeanor. “I could never take your money.”

“And why is _that?”_ Severus sneered, as Ron laughed and signed a scrap of parchment, and then another, using the display-case as a desk. 

“B-because… you’re… you’re _Severus Snape,”_ the clerk whispered, blanching anew. “You killed You-Know-Who. And-” He fumbled his spell-o tape. “And I’m - I’m a Muggleborn. You and Harry Potter… you saved my whole family. My little sisters, and my parents, and all. You don’t pay here. Never.”

“Oh,” Severus said, abruptly disarmed. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “That’s a gift for Harry Potter you’re wrapping just now.” 

The clerk shrieked and dropped it.

“WHAT? Wait - I can do better! I can _wrap it better-”_

***

“What time is he supposed to come?” Hannah asked as Lee paced back and forth across the cluttered living room, stepping over the odds and ends his Grandfather Silas liked to collect. They’d moved the biggest items against the walls in preparation for the impending meeting, and Michael had made a really big deal about the wrought iron moose. Apparently they were rare or something. 

“Dunno,” Lee answered, glancing at the clock. “But it’s nearly seven, so it must be soon. He said… evening. That he had to talk to Madam Rosmerta first, and then would apparate here.” He paused in his pacing. “Should we make tea or something? Snape drinks tea, yeah?” He looked around. “Doesn’t he?”

“Not this late, mate,” Dean answered. “And I doubt he’ll want a Firewhisky if he’s gonna read our minds.”

“That’s not how it works,” Hannah scoffed.

“Yeah it is,” Justin countered. “He’s gonna do Legilimency on us, and _that_ is mind-reading. I’ve read about it and it sounds awful.”

“Do you think he’ll answer any questions?” Michael asked from beside Terry Boot. “I’ve _so many questions.”_

“About Harry?” Dean asked back. “No bloody way in hell.”

“Not about _Harry,”_ Michael countered. “About the Prophet! Didn’t you read _‘The Chosen One’s’_ this morning? I had no idea Quirrel had You-Know-Who in the back of his head. The whole bloody year! In the _back of his head under that stupid turban!_ Why a turban? Why? I want to know more about _that.”_

“He’s coming for _our_ memories not his own,” Lee said. “Try not to be weird. He ended the war, and he probably gave all those interviews so people wouldn’t mob him about it.”

“If I wanted to be weird I _would_ ask about Harry,” Michael muttered. “Maybe about all those detentions, eh? Mad.” He shook his head. “Mad mad mad mad mad mad mad.”

“Don’t call Harry _mad,”_ Angelina spat. “You don’t even know him, alright?”

“Oi, I’m not calling _him_ mad, and I do know him! I was in the DA just as much as you were. Just because I’m a Ravenclaw doesn’t mean-”

“Shut up, Michael.”

“Don’t tell _me_ to shut up, _Johnson.”_

“HEY!” Lee barked. “If you mention Harry one single fucking time while Snape is here, I’ll drop kick you right out of my house, understand? Be cool or get lost.”

“I am being cool! I just-”

“Quiet, boys,” Silas interjected from his position beside the window. He’d been waiting there since before the others arrived, bedecked in his best dress-robes, and had quite refused to leave his post no matter what Lee told him, apparently iron-clad in his determination to be the first to greet _Headmaster Snape._ “I won’t allow any House-loyalty nonsense in my home. You all fought on the same side, and that’s all that matters. The bond of WAR.”

“Yeah,” Justin laughed, and nudged Hannah with his shoulder. _“A Bond Forged in the Trenches.”_

“Prophet’s finally unstuck their heads from their own colons,” Silas muttered. “Past time, too. Bunch of craven, lily-livered, spineless poltroons trying to masquerade as respectable - Aha! They’ve just apparated!”

 _“What’s a ‘poltroon’?”_ Terry whispered to Michael, who shrugged. _“Sounds like a seabird.”_

“They?” Lee asked, joining his grandfather at the window. “Who ‘they?’ Oh, hey, he’s with Ron.”

“Ron?” Dean and Angelina both asked. 

“What’s he got Ron with him for?” Justin demanded. “He never got that blood-quill detention.”

“Oh, no, I think they’re just mates,” Lee said. “For ages, during the war. Didn’t you know? The four of them, I guess. Ron and Hermione, and Harry and Snape.”

“That’s MAD,” Michael burst out.

“Be _quiet!”_

_“Shh!”_

They hushed each other into a tense silence as the footsteps outside approached the front door, echoing a little on Silas’ home-made porch. Then there were three polite knocks. Just three, and not at all of the kind one might anticipate coming from Professor Snape’s fist, so though Lee had been poised to answer - wanting to spare Snape his grandfather’s enthusiasm - he hesitated, and his hesitation left an opening. 

“HEADMASTER SNAPE!” Silas bellowed, whipping the door open with a flourish and something half-way between a bow and a military salute. “What a pleasure.”

Severus very nearly leapt back as the door flew open, and in restraining the urge, merely stepped back. 

Directly onto Ron’s foot. 

_“Ouch! Watch that-”_

“Good evening,” Severus said, removing his bootheel from Ron’s big toe and cautiously taking the man’s broad, calloused hand. “But please, call me Severus. I’m no one’s headmaster these days.” The man smiled widely, his white teeth and beard contrasting rather strikingly with his dark skin, which, in turn, contrasted rather strikingly with his eyes, which were both uncommonly light, and uncommonly bright with enthusiasm. A good-looking man, if perhaps slightly mad. “I take it you’re Mr. Jordan.”

“Silas,” Silas answered, aggressively pumping his hand up and down. “Please, come in, come in, and a Weasley! Excellent. No Weasleys here yet. Very rare, that. Very rare. There’s almost always at least one. And now here you are! Please. Please.”

“Merlin,” Ron muttered. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Jordan. How’s your sword?”

“Took ages to get the blood off! Ages, but right as rain, now. Bright as the dog star.”

“Thank you for accommodating us,” Severus said, a little bemused. “Is Lee-” He stopped short just inside the door. Based on his admittedly limited correspondence with the junior Jordan, he’d expected Lee and possibly one or two other intrepid volunteers. But there were not two. There were _seven_ of his former students in the room. Seven, and from three different Houses, and all of them staring owlishly back at him like he was a ghost from the past. There were Hufflepuffs Hannah Abbot and Justin Finch-Fletchey sitting on the sofa, Ravenclaws Terry Boot and Michael Corner each perched on dining chairs, and Gryffindors Angelina Johnson and Dean Thomas standing. And then, of course, Lee himself. 

Seven. 

This was going to be a bloody walkover. 

“Oi, Angelina!” Ron gasped, pushing past Severus and into the room in his excitement. “Dean! Hannah! What are you all doing here?” 

“Here to send Umbridge to prison, mate,” Angelina said, embracing him. “Doing the Lord’s work. How are you?” 

“Me?” Ron asked, laughing in delight. “I’m good. You know Hermione and I are going to- Hang on.” He pulled out of her embrace and rounded on Severus. _“That’s_ Harry’s birthday present?” he demanded. “Sending Umbridge to _prison?”_ Severus just shrugged, so he turned back around to face his friends. “Merlin’s ratty pants. Didn’t I tell you they were in LOVE? My _god.”_

***

One by one, Severus took each witness back into the little studio where Potterwatch was conceived, and one by one, he watched as they were each individually terrorized by Dolores Jane Umbridge. As each one of them was intimidated and threatened into carving their sins into their own skin - made to write, in their own blood, what their ‘Headmistress’ considered their failures and flaws. Things like _I must not spread fear,_ and _I must not sow discord in the student body,_ and _I am not an anarchist, I am a child._ He watched the foul woman observing the pain and fear she was cultivating like the overseer of an abattoir, her beedy eyes insectile and ravenous beneath a series of jaunty hairbows as each student presented themselves for torture.

It really was quite desperately horrible, but he withheld his ire for the moment in favor of focus, and neatly labeled each bottle with name and House affiliation before marking the seals with a red dot and swearing the witness to secrecy. He’d anticipated some trouble with that last bit, but as it turned out, he needn’t have. All of Harry’s friends and classmates quite happily swore not to speak, as it seemed that Ron - or someone, at least - had done a great deal of work in spreading the word that Severus’ love for Harry was genuine and sincere. Not one of the assembled witnesses so much as gave him a dirty look, and some of them were even quite friendly, in a terrified sort of way. Like Mr. Finch-Fletchly, who apparently had ambitions of going on to attempt a Potions Mastery once he completed his seventh year, and asked for a spot of academic advice, which Severus provided.

“Do you enjoy near-death experiences? No? And how do you feel about full-thickness chemical burns? I see. I might suggest arithmancy as an alternative, then. Far fewer explosions.”

Severus did not return to the living room in between each extraction, but stayed in the studio throughout, allowing one unburdened former-student to send in the next. That did, however, still allow him to hear a few snatches of incisively intellectual conversation from out in the house, including such gems as: _‘so… is he gay? I mean… actually? Like… gay-gay?’_ and the answer, apparently from Ron himself, _‘yeah, you idiot, he’s gay. Gay-gay and actually gay. That’s what it’s called when you’re both MEN. Who invited Michael?’_

Oh, and it was a Ravenclaw.

The wit was blinding. 

It was near the end, between Miss Abbot and Mr. Thomas, that Severus’ bracelet finally alerted him to another message. He was rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes and wishing he could have a glass of wine when it happened, and he pulled his sleeve back at once, relieved. He’d been hoping for more after that first tentative communique - had been primed at each stop to answer quickly - but nothing else had come. He supposed Harry was trying to give him what he’d asked for. Trust, though that did not necessarily mean space. 

He was still, occasionally, a bit embarrassed at the sheer amount of space he did not need from Harry. If he could have somehow accomplished what he was doing now from afar, he would absolutely have stayed in Number Twelve indefinitely, the way he would have stayed in the dungeons with Harry curled up beside him until the end of time, and been perfectly content while the slow heat-death of the cosmos proceeded around them. And that was certainly an uncommon sentiment, or, at the very least, a somewhat unhealthy one. Surely a grown man shouldn’t be so obsessed? But, alas, it was far too late to concern himself with that sort of trivial nonsense. He was obsessed. Deeply, intractably obsessed, and there was nothing for it, and thank Merlin Harry had finally said something other than, _‘hey.’_ Even if it was something… opaque.

 _[You missed something in the muffins]_ appeared in the familiar, delicate script of his bracelet. _[Are you coming home soon? We’re making dinner]_

What an incredibly loaded series of sentences. 

He considered. Which to ask about first? _‘Something’_ in the muffins, or _‘we’_ are making dinner?

“What’s wrong with the muffins?” he asked.

 _[Nothing]_ Harry answered. _[Secret Number One: there is something amiss with the muffins]_ That was followed by an interestingly garbled string of characters that seemed to be mostly laughter, and Severus squinted. 

“Are you drunk?”

 _[Nearly]_ appeared. _[Was I not supposed to get drunk? Must have known I was gonna. Plus, Narcissa made Moho-somethings and Kreacher had one, and he didn’t want to let us help with dinner but he changed his mind so now he’s teaching us kebabs. Are you almost done? He says it will keep, but mostly because it requires searing on an open flame. For flav-Oh SHIT- hahahaa]_

“Open flame, and then, ‘oh shit,’” Severus said. “Very confidence-building. Thank you.” He held his wand aloft to check the time. It was quarter-past eight, which was a bit later than he’d thought. He touched his wand back to his bracelet. “But yes, I think I will be home soon. I’ve only one to go.”

 _[One what? Errand? Draco, no! Not with-]_ The text broke off suddenly. Apparently Harry had taken his finger off the bracelet, or else a sudden calamity had occurred. 

Severus frowned. 

“You seem to have occupied yourself very effectively,” he said, and when Dean stuck his head in the door, waved him in and pointed to the spindly antique chair Silas had provided. It was made almost entirely of antlers, which was certainly… a choice.

 _[Sorry]_ Harry said. _[One more what? Also Draco wants to know if you like rum. He says he’s only ever seen you drink brandy, and wine, and scotch and - why have you seen him drinking so much?.... What? Well, I mean, I guess. That’s a little bit FUCKED though. Or, you know. Very]_ There was another little section of what Severus had come to understand as Harry’s breathless giggling, and, knowing that last part had not been even remotely directed at him, contented himself with imagining Hermione or perhaps even Narcissa agreeing that the weeks and months spent with Draco in his rooms for variously overlong stretches of time had, indeed, been, ‘very fucked.’

“Do _you_ like rum?” he asked. 

“Is that Harry?” Dean broke in from his seat, and Severus held up one finger.

 _[I like whatever this is]_ a pause. _[Ok, Hermione, jeez! I’ll ask. Hang on! Merlin]_ another pause. _[Do you like spish rice?]_

“What?” Severus asked. 

“What?” Dean asked.

 _[Spish rice. Do you like it? Oh, wait]_ Severus waited. _[Spanish rice. SPAN-ISH. Come home and drink with me]_

“I do like spanish rice,” Severus said, wanting very badly to apparate right then. “And I’ll be home shortly, so save one of Narcissa’s toxic brews for me if it’s not too sweet.”

_[It’s… pretty sweet. It has a sugar stick in it. I mean cane. SugarCANE… stick. I’ve been told not to gnaw on it but it's pretty good if you gnaw on it]_

Severus knuckled down against the laughter threatening to burst out of him. “I see,” he said instead. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find something else, then. Last memory now, love. The sooner I begin the sooner I’ll be through.”

_[Kreacher wants to know more or less than half an hour]_

“Half an hour should be just about right.”

 _[Ok]_ Harry answered. _[Love you. Don’t take too long]_

“I won’t,” Severus said, and then, unable to withhold it: “What is wrong with the muffins?” 

_[N o t h i n g]_ appeared. _[Nothing at all. Why, are you feeling frustrated? So sorry]_ Laughter. _[What’s your errand, eh? What five letters? Where are you right now? Bastard]_ And more laughter. Severus sighed. 

“Touché,” he said. 

_[We’re all in the kitchen when you get back]_

“Very well. Try not to burn down the house for at least thirty more minutes.”

_[Draco says fuck off]_

“Tell Draco likewise.”

_[Hey, Draco! Severus says YOU fu-]_

“So…” Dean began slowly, watching Severus smooth his sleeve back over his bracelet and handprint. “That was Harry?”

“Indeed it was.”

“...how is he? I haven’t seen him since… well. You know.”

“Oh, he’s a bit better every day,” Severus answered lightly. “As was probably evident from that cryptic, one-sided conversation, he is teasing me.”

Dean smiled a little. “That’s good,” he said. “I’m glad he’s alright. If anyone deserves a rest, it’s Harry, eh?” He held out his wand-hand, spread his fingers, and then made a fist. “Tell him thanks when you get back, will you? For my hand. I was sure I’d never cast again, and it’s like nothing ever happened.” He touched his thumb to the tip of each finger, one after the other, and then reversed the pattern. “See? Good as new.”

Severus rolled his right shoulder in its socket in answer. “Yes, he tends to be quite thorough in his healings,” he said. “And I’ll relay your gratitude once the need for secrecy has passed. I have your promise not to speak?”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean said, with another, slightly less uncomfortable smile. “Wouldn’t dare ruin it, though I gotta be honest, I’d love to see his face when he finds out. Harry hates that bitch. I heard she tried to feed him veritaserum to get him to give up his _own Godfather._ Sirius Black! Is that true?”

“Is it true that Sirius Black was Harry’s Godfather, or is it true that Dolores Umbridge tried to slip him veritaserum?”

“Uh… both?”

Severus sat back a little. “Yes, and yes, but it’s quite complicated, and the veritaserum was fake.”

“Oh,” Dean answered, visibly unsure which of those statements to react to. “...It was fake?”

“Distilled water with a pinch of agar, yes. Dolores is not a terribly skilled Potioneer, and so Harry, as far as I am aware, dumped a particularly tepid cup of tea into a potted plant.”

“Ha,” Dean said. “Suppose you would have brewed it. School Potions Master and all.” He chuckled. “Funny, if you’d asked any of us at the time if you’d have so much as kept Harry from stepping off a cliff, we’d have said no. Thought you despised each other, the pair of you.”

“Yes, well, I cannot speak to Harry’s loathing,” Severus answered. “But I assure you, my own image was carefully cultivated for maximum distance from that specific green-eyed herald of the apocalypse.”

“Well _that_ worked out well, didn’t it?” Dean said. “Just loads of distance between the two of you holding hands on the cover of the Prophet.”

“It did not work for as long as may have been wise, no.”

“Ended up alright though, eh?” Dean asked with another little laugh. “But I can’t imagine how Umbridge survived doing that to Harry if you two were already-” He stopped sharply, like he’d said something horrible and offensive. Which he had. “Oh. Uh. I meant - sorry. Nevermind.”

“We were not, no,” Severus answered smoothly. “In fact, we did rather despise each other at that time. Our current entanglement began much later.” 

Not _that_ much later, of course, but propriety was on his mind in a way it hadn’t been for ages. Gregory and his stooges might be out badgering possible witnesses right at that moment, and who knew who might speak? Best to smooth over suspicion wherever he encountered it. Even amongst apparent allies. 

“I do not, however, hold any particular regard for Dolores Umbridge,” he continued. “And even less for dosing a student with a restricted substance against their wishes on school grounds. Even a student I disliked.” He folded his hands. “I would have done the same for any of you, given the chance. Pity she never knew, though. I have such a fondness for revealing my treachery.”

Dean let out a single, sharp bark of surprise. “Merlin, what a terrible missed opportunity to gloat. Can’t imagine she’s got any idea what’s in store for her.”

“Generally people do not,” Severus agreed, and Dean grinned in apparent delight, but then it faded, and he became suddenly serious. 

“Listen,” he said, sitting forward. “Professor Snape. Thank you.”

“For what, praytell?” Severus asked. “Harassing Dolores Umbridge into Azkaban? I assure you I’m doing it purely for my own vindictive satisfaction. Though it will have a bow on it.”

“No, not that,” Dean answered, waving his flippancy away. “For what you did for us in the cellar. I didn’t figure out it was you until much later, but I know it was. That Harry called you for help, and you sent Dobby, and that it was you Harry was talking to with that bracelet while we were all in hiding at Shell. So… thank you, alright? And for Luna, too. She and her dad have been staying with my mum since their house was destroyed, and for a while, she was… not well. She’s looking a lot better now, though. Almost back up to weight, and saying… you know. Normal Luna things.”

“I’m glad to hear Miss Lovegood is improving,” Severus said. “I understand she was captive nearly as long as Ollivander.”

“Nearly,” Dean answered. “I was lucky. Got caught near the end. I can’t imagine being kept down there in the dark for so long. Months?” He shivered. “She was like a skeleton.”

“Every one of us still standing is lucky,” Severus said. “Now, if you’re ready, I’d like to begin. You’re my final extraction, and Harry is requesting my return.”

Dean nodded and sat up straight before looking into Severus’ eyes. “Am I going to be sick?” he asked. “Michael got sick. Made it to the sink, though.”

“What luck that he made it to the sink,” Severus answered, raising his wand. “But I doubt you’ll react quite that strongly. Mr. Corner has always been on the tender side. First detention, now.”

***

It took Severus exactly thirty-eight minutes to extricate himself from Silas Jordan’s house, as in the end, the Jordan Patriarch had a memory to offer him as well. It was, then, with many repetitions of ‘Headmaster Snape,’ despite his request to be called by his first name, and many hearty handshakes, and many offerings of drinks, and pointings to the shined sword mounted over the fireplace, that he finally made it out with an additional vial labeled, _‘Jordan, Silas: Draco Malfoy courageously leading the resistance against the Deatheater Scourge.’_

Silas had insisted it be labeled that way, and Severus hadn’t wanted to argue the point as much as he’d wanted to leave. He could change it to be less ridiculous later, anyway, if the mood struck him. Or it could just be an eccentric surprise for whatever poor clerk unpacked his crate.

“All done, yeah?” Ron asked as they walked out past the wards. “I’m bloody _starving.”_

“You’ve been eating since we left,” Severus said. 

“Crisps don’t count.”

“Do Gringotts petit-fours count?”

“Nah, I need REAL food. Those were good, though.”

Severus scoffed and stopped on the sidewalk. The bright, full moon was casting long, thin shadows from their legs, like stalks of bamboo. “Yes, well, you’ll be able to continue stuffing yourself in a moment,” he said, and turned to face him. “Apparently everyone is pitching in and we are having kebabs, spanish rice, and buckets of hard alcohol. But there’s one more thing I need to take care of before I’ll allow you within speaking distance of Harry.” 

“What?” Ron asked, but then saw his drawn wand, and sighed. “Oh, _that._ Alright, fine. Angelina said it straight out, didn’t she? Damn.” He closed his eyes and turned his face away. “Have at me, then, I suppose.” Obligingly, Severus raised his wand, but paused as Ron cracked one eye back open to peer at him. “Fucking spectacular idea, though, mate,” he said. “When you said a gift, I figured… I dunno what. New clothes, or something. Or even a ring. Was a bit braced for that. But _this?_ Cut-throat. No wonder he’s mad for you.”

“High praise, Mr. Weasley,” Severus answered. “Now, you’ll remember everything up through the sweet shop. Do you consent?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron said, and closed his eye again. “You’re right. I’d probably blurt it. Go ahead.”

“I appreciate your understanding of your own limitations,” Severus said. “And as for a ring, the jeweler hasn’t gotten back to me quite yet. I’m coming out of my skin about it.”

“The what?”

_“Obliviate!”_

  
  



End file.
